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Motivation/Consequences: Beth Vs. NaNo

So, I took a break from writing yesterday, as I usually do on Sundays. BUT I did some plotting. And I did some more plotting today. And I am so excited I can’t even…I think that’s why I accidentally wrote two NaNoWriMo posts and, er, posted them. Oops. Forgive me? Please?

Here’s a picture of a blue crab to make up for it:

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But now I need some motivation to finish NaNoWriMo. I’ve done it three or so times (not including Camp NaNoWriMo), but have never quite made it to the required 50,000 words before December 1st. SO. If I…fall short this year…there needs to be consequences. Fun consequences, because that’s how I roll.

MOTIVATION.

What should happen, should I fail to write 50k next month? These are your options:

A) I’ll do an audio reading of the first page of my middle grade project “How NOT to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse”

B) I’ll read the song of your choosing in either an awful Irish, French, Cockney, English, or Russian accent.

C) A free e-copy of In a Pickle to one random commenter

And now I’ve written yet another post about NaNoWriMo.

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Something tells me^ you’ll live

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NaNo is Coming

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), as I believe I’ve mentioned, quickly approacheth. That means late hours, lots of caffeine, a sense of panic and dread, lack of sleep, madness…Wait, panic and dread? Really?

Here are some ways to overcome your fear of writing 50,000 words in 30 days:

  1. Don’t participate – Run away while you can!

Hehehe. OKAY:

  1. Set your own goal for November; it’s not so much about writing a whole novel as it is actually getting words on paper, isn’t it? IMO, anyway.
  2. Write as much as you possibly can stand to the first week. After that, it gets harder.
  3. Use the Writer’s Block program I shared with you on Monday. Set small goals several times a day. It adds up fast!
  4. Reward yourself when you’ve reached certain milestones. Wrote the recommended 1,667 words for the day? A bag of M&Ms for you!

Not interested in writing a novel? Not interested in writing PERIOD? Hmm. That is a foreign concept to me. Data not computing…malfunctioning…Bzzt..brrssttt…ARGH!

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Parody Hour

You walk into a bar. But it’s not any old bar. It’s a karaoke bar. But it’s not any old karaoke bar. It’s a Par-a-do-ke Bar! What will you sing? Here is an option (can you guess the original?):

Sweet dreams are made of tea
Oolong, instant, Dar-Jee-Ling
Sencha, Grey (Earl), and the Ceylon tea
Everybody’s looking for Assam.

Karaoke not your sing (get it? Sing for SCENE? AHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHA!) Roll up to the bar and get a drink. Only they don’t have any. Instead, they serve desserts. But not any old desserts. GEEKY desserts. (Points you if you can guess the references.)

  • Beam Me Up, Butterscotchy! (ice cream)
  • Wrath of Pecan (ice cream)
  • Red Wedding Velvet Cake
  • Weeping Angel Food Cake
  • Black Widow Raspberry (pie)
  • I Love you/I Dough(nut)
  • Pudding

But you’re watching your weight, so you skip the desserts, and ask where the bathroom is. You see this and leave: CLICK BAIT

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This random Monday post was brought to you by late Sunday night desperation. Thank you.

Keep your pen on the page,
Beth

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Are You Ready for Some NaNo(WriMo)?!

Anyone else doing National Novel Writing Month this year? If so (even if NOT) here is a must-have and must-do list for you:

  1. Watch NaNoMusical by WeTangent on Youtube
  2. Or listen to the soundtrack (and buy it. Please?)
  3. Visit the NaNoWriMo website, but of course
  4. You NEED caffeinated mints
  5. BACK UP YOUR WORK!
  6. Get outline advice
  7. This awesome post/site CLICK
  8. Read and apply this book on self-editing post NaNo

My book this year will be YA, a category I’ve never done for NaNoWriMo. The Maze Runner meets The Missing meets The 100. That’s the idea, anyway. So, during November, my fantasy novel will be put on hold. Bring forth the dystopian young adult! I’m ready >:)

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Randomosity

PROBLEM The Internet: the wonderful tool of procrastinators everywhere.

SOLUTION Writer’s Block, the free word processor that blocks you out of everything else (Internet, your wallpaper/icons, everything) until you reach your word quota…or the time limit you set for yourself.

(And now I really feel like an ad man–er, woman.)

EAR CANDY This song: Square Circles

EYE CANDY This painting: (warning: girl wearing very thin shift. You can see certain things. Since I’m a gal, it doesn’t bother me. Just a heads up.)

QUOTE “Sometimes when you’re in a dark place you think you’ve been buried there, but actually you’ve been planted.” – Christine Caine

QUICK READ FOR WRITERS Marketing advice for indies (but I think it could work for small press authors as well): How I sold 978 Fiction Ebooks Per Day in 2014

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Freebie Friday: The Moon Was Full and Pink

The moon was full and pink

She’d had too much to drink

They say the moon ’tis made of cheese

Listen close: it’s made of these:

Promises you’ll never keep

Scars that run too long, too deep

The witch’s laugh, her sprightly cackle

A roving spade, a wormy apple

The rotting stench of rancid pears

Think I’m done? I’m almost there!

The moon is round, the moon is full

Think too hard, you’re back in school

The moon was full, the moon was red

The stars above? Long since…dead

I wish I might, I wish I may

Always have the final say

But pinkish moons that’re full are silly

Don’t believe me? Ask my cousin Billy

And now you may have come to think:

‘Twas Beth alone who had the drink.

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The Day I Bought Steampunky Gloves

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So, I found an excuse to own pleather gloves that stink like the real thing. Why? Because I had this wonderful idea of being a writer.

Let me back up: I had the wonderful idea of what defined a real writer. Maybe. Read on.

Jo March from Little Women had a hat she wore when she was writing. Depending on what angle it was at, her family would know what type of writerly mood she was in (my word, no hers, obvs) and how well (or poorly) the writing was going. Said I to myself, “Now, that would maybe motivate me, get me in the right, serious frame of mind to be a real writer.”

If you don’t know me from Bob, you might not know how devastatingly insecure I can be. My reasoning was that if I dressed a certain way, maybe the words would come quicker…and better. But props are props. It’s all in the mind. The psyche. The attitude and approach I take with my work.

Cheap tricks can become not-so-cheap. First it’s gloves (which I can’t type in to save Dickens, I’m sorry.) Next it’s a tricorn hat that looks ridiculous atop my messy ‘do. What after that? Hmm? A trench coat for mysteries? A bouquet of realer-than-real-life (faux) blood-red roses? Did you know that on Valentine’s Day, some poor suckers pay an excess of $50 for half a doz of these (well, real) pollen-infested plants that are just going to die after turning their vase water a sickly (and stinky) green? But I digress.

The point is…it’s good to have your head in the game. But some things become crutches or excuses not to write. “Oh, the gloves don’t allow me to make actual physical contact with the keyboard. Oh well. Guess I’ll go watch Elementary.” Or “The hat didn’t inspire me. I’m stuck and out ten bucks. And now I’m frustrated (and poor), so I guess I’ll go watch Elementary.”

Writers write. We flounder. We flourish. We have seasons. But we always jump back into the game, gloves or no.

Just some random rambling thoughts for you.

Keep your pen on the page,
Beth

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Friday Freebie: Coffee Date

A belated gift to your for National Coffee Day (this past Tuesday.) Behold: The Coffee Date…

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            When he told her he loved her, she asked him why. They’d been sitting at the same sticky counter of the same dingy café for an hour, tops, and the words had been somewhat of a shock to her system.

She studied him when he didn’t answer.

The man’s hair was black, slick. He smelled of Old Spice aftershave and some off-brand deodorant. His tie dangled around his neck, and his collar was unbuttoned.

Maggie had stopped sipping her latte for this slovenly man; she needed an answer. Time, after all, wasn’t free—and neither was this decaf, non-fat vanilla grande with extra foam. “Why do you love me?” she repeated.

He gave her a look that said, “You’re kidding me, right?” But his tone was civil when he replied. “Work with me here. We come to this joint every day, yes?”

“Yes,” Maggie agreed. What was he getting at? “We do come here every day, goodness knows why.” She gave a meaningful look around the café, her nosed turned up.

He smiled and nodded his agreement of her assessment. “And we both order the same decaf, non-fat vanilla grande latte with the extra foam on top, right?”

“Right.”

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that made her hopes sore up to dangerous heights. “So when I said ‘I love you,’ did you really think I was talking to you?”

Reality snatched at Anticipation’s tail, holding it earthbound. Blinking hard, Maggie flipped over her copper hair, forming a veil between them. She did not want him to see her expression. On the outside she was angry. On the inside, though, she was raging. Darn tears spoil everything.

He leaned over and whispered through the confessional screen of hair, his breath reeking of coffee and vanilla. “I said I love the food. It’s to die for, isn’t it?”

Maggie scoffed. What had she expected? A proposal? Marriage? A Family? Ridiculous! Finally, after all these weeks, she worked up her nerve and asked him the question that had been burning on her lips: “Who are you? We’ve never met, right?”

A pause. He laughed, one loud blast of sound: “Ha!”

The curtain of hair between them parted. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…when you said that, you reminded me of someone.”

Maggie’s eyebrows shot up into her bangs. “Who?”

“That’s the thing,” the man said with a frown. “I don’t remember.”

Paging Dr. Foor. Dr. Foor to radiology.” It was a cold, feminine voice blasting out through speakers somewhere in the room.

The two looked at each other. They looked around for the speakers, but couldn’t find them.

“Well, this was fun,” said Maggie, rubbing her forehead. “Tell me you don’t love me again some time.”

“It was a pleasure for me, too, miss.”

Dr. Foor from radiology shook his head. He’d been standing there, observing the odd exchange, pity welling in his eyes. “They must’ve really loved each other, once upon a time.” He turned to his patients. “Come on, Mr. and Mrs. Miller; time for your CAT Scan.”