After a short slump that involved a pity party, some tears, a few pick-me-up-talks from Tom and a side of self-doubt, I’m back in the writing game. I wanted to work on a book that was action-oriented, but my heart fell for another paranormal idea. My world building for this story is coming along strongly and, though I have only a very tentative idea of a plot, I’m moving ahead.
The biggest issue with my writing is finding a method that works for me. For Christmas, Tom bought me a copy of “The 90 Day Novel”, which I started to follow. While it helped me in many, many ways, I realized that it was asking me to try a process that wasn’t entirely going to work for me. I’ve been able to adapt it somewhat to work for me, though it won’t be 90 days. 120, maybe? So while I’m positive that I won’t be able to whip out a first draft at the drop of a hat, I have at least grown more comfortable with my own personal process and my ideas.
For now. (See self-doubt and tears above.)
I also got the updated version of Scrivener for Christmas. This is the program that I use to write my novels with. While I love the notecard format and all of the new ways that it allows authors to plot and plan, it doesn’t exactly work for me. I just need something a little more visual and pliable, which is why I still use Visio (above). Yes, that is my crazy plot map for my new novel.
Scrivener doesn’t exactly allow me to plot like the image you see above. It uses a note card system which, while handy, isn’t exactly what I want. However, it does something incredibly handy (and compatible) with my method: I can send that image home and drop it into the “Research” file right on the Binder, and it allows me to reference the image at any time. In fact, for authors who like to download lots of images and items (there are apparently many authors who work that way), the Research binder functions beautifully for saving these kinds of ideas.
Now here’s a teaser of the new novel. It has already gone through my Writers’ Group.
I had just finished the courier package for Judge Blangardi when the alarm went off. Right away I could tell it wasn’t a call for fire. The creators of this particular alarm wanted it to be noticeably different, which is why the office sounded like it was bracing for Blitzkrieg. The cheap florescent tubes dimmed and red emergency lights kicked on, highlighting the safety zones for all personnel who needed them.
In the entire building, it was only me.
I had taken care to memorize all of the safety locations in the building, though it wasn’t necessary. In the dimmed room, cones of bright blue light shone like heavenly beacons of refuge. I hung up my phone, skirted out from around my desk, dodged the mail cart, scooted down the narrow aisle between desks and stepped into the nearest Magic Suppressor, guaranteed to stop magic attacks up to 25,000 MMU – Merlin Metaphysical Units.
Since I was the only person who couldn’t defend themselves from a magic attack, I was the only one hot-footing it to the nearest Suppressor. Everyone else remained where they were, glowing, sparking, radiating or simply holding up the artifact that would provide adequate personal protection in case of a mage attack. Zalman Applewhite was using his Mystic Haagenti Ring for projection and had propped his elbow up on his desk, lifting the glowing, golden item in the air. I noticed he had moved the ring to his middle finger and was now staring hard at me, as if to convey a message.
In fact, all six of my coworkers looked irritated. The receptionist probably had the same sour expression, but he was parked at the front desk where I couldn’t see him.
I knew why they were annoyed. In an understaffed, overworked office, every minute was precious. These emergency drills, though mandatory by the State of New York for all government facilities with non-magical personnel, were viewed as a major pain in the butt. Before I came along three months ago, these drills never interrupted their day. Now they were a mandatory monthly occurrence. Being the one who scheduled them didn’t make things easier, either. Mostly they were just irritated because I was a “Non”, someone who couldn’t cast a single spell if I tried. In the list of handicaps, mine was least tolerated.
Instead of acknowledging their obvious disdain, I pretended not to notice by staring at my feet while smoothing out my ill-fitting, fifth-hand-store, salmon-colored skirt. The item was hideous, even by my standards, but it had been marked down so low that I could actually afford it. Three days a week, I squeezed myself into the sickeningly pink atrocity and felt thankful that someone had finally taken pity on me and offered a job that required a skirt, ugly or not.
Five long seconds later, the alarm silenced and a weight lifted from my shoulders. The lights flooded the room and the blue light swathing me dissolved. As if a switch had been flipped, office normalcy resumed: Desk phones started ringing, the coffee maker in the break room gurgled loudly as it finished brewing a fresh pot, and my coworkers returned to their work, shouting to each other over filing cabinets and enormous stacks of unfinished reports. They were so busy they almost looked as if they had completely forgotten about the drill.
I could only hope that was the case. No one else was willing to hire a Non and I wasn’t going back to being homeless, living in the abandoned subway tunnels again. I was going to make this job work. I was going to make my coworkers love me so much they’d never want to let me go. As I returned my desk, I vowed to be the best secretary that the Probation and Parole Office of Punkton, New York ever had.
Copyright 2011
