Balance and rewards

In the last five days,  I think that I have come up with a balance in my life.  I am currently chipping away at my word back log for December,  the Veil, and Red Book Expose are moving a long. I have received positive  and negative  feedback on the pieces that I have posted on Inked Voices. Both of which I plan on using, to some extent.

One part of this new balance is I am starting to work on smaller goals, and then rewards.  Here is how the reward and balance system is working.  I start with the thing I want to do least.  Currently that is reading NY Bar Prep outlines.  Once I have finished a section of that, I get to write.  Once I have finished writing my 1666 words, I get to check out inked voice write a review and read other peoples reviews. After I am finished  with this I get to watch a TV show.  I am  trying to repeat this sequence at least twice a day.  This has helped my get more reading, writing and critiquing done this last five days than in the last two weeks.  Woot for a balanced plan. 

The second thing I have noticed this week is that people critique differently. To me this is beneficial. There seems to be two main types of critiques:  The line editor who look at word usage, grammar, and taste, or the big picture critique that focuses on plot, character, pacing.   However,  I  have also found that some people  are use critiquing to point out errors, which might not be errors; but are merely artistic and stylistic differences.  Additionally, I have come to discover that some people believe that the rules of writing are not meant to be broken. If you are breaking them, then you are doing it wrong.  Well, I have never been one for towing the line.  I have always been the person that saw the line, and just had to cross it. It is just in my nature.

Additionally, I have found that when people critique, even if they say they are not looking at the genre this is not true. I have found this even with myself,  that my writing styles in some ways dictates what I like and what I don't. I have also found in selections that are not my person tasted that I tend to find more problems  The question is are there really more problems or is it just my own personal preferences. More than likely, it more about my preferences than real errors.  But seeing this play out in my critiques, it makes me want to push myself to write in those areas.

One member and I, in particular are at odds with each other. I have read and critiqued a piece by this author,  the piece  is so outside my own voice range that it took me a while, and a couple times reading, it to find that I liked it.  The section is a larger part of her book,  and is beautifully violent, sad and broken story of life. Of what people are willing and able to do, when they feel the world is set against them. After  reading the piece I did a critique which focused on the one skill I have which is laying out scenes and weaving in story.  I am  not sure how she took what I said. But when she critiqued one of my pieces, she focused solely on structure and line editing. I wonder is this because  my selection  is so out side her own voice, she could not see the potential of the piece.  Or is it what she said in the feed back section: that there was nothing that makes a reader to want to turn the page. Why should any one care about a delusional girl who is receiving treatment. Part of me wants to believe that she just can not see past her one style of realism. It makes me wonder, is my writing so unclear or voice specific that it is enjoyable only to me. To Answer that question I am going to post the same piece here: if it utterly sucks,  please tell me.  So I can tear it a part.  If any of it is salvageable.

excerpt the veil:

Chapter 1 The White Room

The drug induced haze is her bubble creating a space for her mind to leave the white room. Even now, she is not there, she is sitting on a bench in a park; she can taste the salt in the air and the smell of pine trees fills her nose.  Leaning into the old wooden bench turned silver from years in the sea air, sea gulls soaring overhead. The thin white cotton pants and tee shirt do not protect her from the cold.  Her toes curl in the dew covered grass; as she longs to be one of those birds. The longing brings the pain, in a sudden flash it is cutting through her dream world.  The pain rips her from the peacefulness of the lulling sea. The smell of salt air is replaced with burning hair.  A silent scream fills the space between here and there, and once again, she is in the white room. 

Her mind and body are on fire, Amelia blinks the dream and pain from her eyes, forcing her white world to come back into focus: white walls, white clothes, white skin, and worse of them all, the blinding white light. She wonders if there is any color but white in this world.  Amelia looks up at the man above her; she sees the fine lines etching his face.  Amy where were you, a moment ago? She looks up from the floor, he is standing there, white jacket flapping about his legs like wings. Is he an angel or a devil?

Her lips crack as she licks the taste of the sea off them, nowhere doctor. I was just dreaming.

Amelia looks up at Dr. White, he is as white as the world he has created for her.  Amy, I thought you had come to terms with your diagnosis.  Schizophrenia is a chronic and severe brain disorder, and these hallucinations are merely one of the positive symptoms that you are suffering. If you continue to hide these symptoms from me, I will be unable to provide you with the correct course of treatment. I thought you wanted to get better.

Amelia looks up at her doctor, wondering if she will ever get the chance to leave this white room. The world outside the hospital: that is what seems like a delusion. Doctor White, I want to get better and go back to my life.  But I do not know how.

Of course you do not know how. That is why I am here to help you.  Now follow me, it is clear that the anti-psychotics are not going to be enough today. The doctor spins on his heel, the white coat flapping out around him. Amelia thinks briefly maybe he is an angel.

Amelia pushes to her feet, stumbling a couple of steps; her hand reaches out for support. Stepping from the padded floor of her room, a shiver runs like electricity through her body. She knows it is caused by more than the coldness of the white granite floor.   The halls of the hospital are a maze that her mind has begun to memorize, but still unknown to her is what is behind all of the doors that dot the facility.  She is only allowed into three rooms: her room, the treatment room, and the doctor’s office.  She has heard screams of others, and the rustling behind closed doors as she walks the halls. She wonders who else is here.

Amelia pauses to stare at one of the doors. Her mind drifts past the door, and Amelia could swear she glimpses a person beyond. Her thought is broken as Doctors stares at her like a bug under a microscope. Amy, what are you thinking about right now?

Drawn back into the white hall, Amelia falls into step behind the doctor. I am wondering who else is here, and if I can talk to them. 

Amy, you cannot worry about others. You have to focus on yourself. 

Sighing, Amy responds, Yes doctor.  As they turn the corner, she realizes they are heading toward the medical suites. Doctor, do I have to do this?  Every time I do these treatments, I feel like I am dying. 

The Doctor just looks at her intently. She bows her head, and he turns, rounding the corner.  Amy, I would never let you die. I am just trying to find the best course of treatment for your condition.   You knew that this was a highly experimental program when you signed on. The treatment and test are the best way to fine-tune your medications.  Or do you want to go back to the way you used to be?

Amelia nods in agreement, the way she used to be, lost between her realities never knowing if the person she spoke to was real or not: no, she did not want that.  But Amelia slows her pace trying to give herself some time.  Maybe she can get out of it, just for today.  She knows better, the treatment room is always inevitable on the days when she dreams of her other worlds.  Sighing, she resigns herself to the treatment. 

As the door swings open, she wonders what he would do, if she ran back to her room. Amelia pushes the idea away, knowing that punishment for such a transgression would be worse than the treatment.  As they enter the room, it is filled with the usual people, all dressed in white. Oh, how she hates the color.  In the center of the room is her chair. Taking her seat, the only woman in the room walks over and straps her wrists and ankles in place, then insert the IV into her hand catheter.  As the substance from the IV, hanging overhead, hits her blood stream, the room spins, and she begins to forget what is coming.  A man, one of the other doctors, comes and places small electrodes on her forehead; a set of censors take their place on her chest, arms, and legs.

Dr. White silences the room. The lights dim.  Now Amy, I want you to the go back to the bench, in the park, overlooking the ocean.  Remember the smell of the pine trees, and the taste of the salt on your tongue.  Are you there?

Amelia tries to do what the doctor asks, but she is still in the room; its cold whiteness is all she can see.  Her voice quakes as she responds to the doctor. That world does not exist. It is just my imagination.  I am still here.

Dr. White takes a calming breath. Now Amy, you need to do what I tell you.  This is the only way to measure the depth of your delusions, and map the location of the brain from which they originate.  If I can figure out exactly what part of the brain is active during your hallucinatory state then I can target your treatment more precisely. Also by volunteering to enter your delusions you can prove to yourself they are not real, allowing you the ability to better differentiate between delusion and reality.  

Confused but wanting this over with, she begins to let her mind wander to the bench, but she did not want to let them into that world. She had let them into so many of her worlds, exposing them to their probing and intrusions.   It was the one place she could escape, from them, from her mother, even from herself when need arose.  No, she would take them to a different world.  As she makes up her mind, her vision begins to blurs, like a veil pulled over her eyes.

Past the veil, there is nothing.  Doctor, I am not at my beach. I cannot find it. Then she sees the shadow of one of her best known worlds a place she has gone since childhood. I am at   the forest again. The Cabin has to be close.  The sun is setting here, making the sky burn.  She feels the electricity course through her body, punishment for her failure.   

Amy, I said for you to take us to the beach.  We have been to the cabin in the woods. You know it is in your imagination.  Anger tinges his voice like a razor cutting across the space between Amelia and the Doctor.  Amy, you are not really there, are you, dear?

Amy knows better than to lie, but she does not want to push through the veil.  Considering her own desires, she pauses for a second floating in the space between this world and the next. The veil is in view, but that is normal. She always sees it. But this space where she is between her worlds, she feels warm, like she has been wrapped in a down comforter. She wonders why she always does what the Doctor asks of her.  Thinking of life outside these white walls, and the space between her worlds, she realizes she wants to live in that world again, and for that to happen, she must do what Dr. White asks. She must push through.  The tips of her fingers touch the veil. Instantly they feel a flame. Without another pause, she steps into the veil, and in that, instant she is like a witch on a pyre engulfed in flames; death, a heartbeat away, but just before she bursts into flame, she is in the forests.

In the medical suites, the diagnostic equipment attached to Amelia wails its concern. As Dr. White and his staff watch as Amy fades, her form becomes incorporeal. In a flash of light she vanishes. As this happens the EKG and EEG go off the chart. Her heart rate is above any acceptable limits.  Dr. White calls out to Amy, trying to maintain a connection to her, and his reality. The air in the medical suite is filled with static electricity, like that instance before lightning strikes.  The staff shuffle their feet, busying themselves with the task of monitoring Amy. 

Again, Dr. White calls out, Amy are you in the woods?  The silence fills the room, the time delay is palatable finally the answer comes, Amy’s response sounds like she is talking on a string phone, rising out of the space where her body should be.  Yes, Doctor I am here.   

The staff let out a collective sigh of relief. The connection has not been broken.  Straightening, Dr. White begins his inquisition of Amy; his voice is tinted in anger at the lost opportunity this experiment has become. 

Why couldn't Amy just do what she is told?  But all of the subjects seem to have one trait in common, stubbornness. Unnerved by her continued refusal to do the simplest of things he proceeded with the treatment. Making note of her continued defiance.   

The third thing I have learned this week is how useful it is to critique other peoples writing, and to read the critique's of others.I look at this feed back and see if, or how I can apply it to my own writing.  As I try to push my skill level from amateur to something more. I see all the other people working on their craft as well and I rejoice.  I am not alone in this mad pursuit,  I am one in an army of writers, and if we work together we will succeed. So here is to work,  more work and still more work,  that is what I am finding good writing takes.  However, I love the work, it is actually like play,  but that is why I have focused this year on writing.

So this is how I am doing so far sit  6436 words behind but it is better than 10K behind.

	30-Nov	Writen	Total
Red Book Expose	52454	8167	60621
The Veil	16071	27107	43178
Close Corp (edit)	22143	0	22143
Cave City (edit)	3372	0	3372
Ex Nilhio	13015	0	13015
Gutter Punk	6373	0	6373
Total		35274	148702