I guess the thing with failing is that you're okay as long as you get back on track, right?  So I'm challenging myself to participate in
halseanderson 's WFMAD challenge.  I almost skipped this blog today.  I wrote elsewhere, but this is my metacognitive writing journal.  =)  I want to analyze my thought process and my writing process.  Perhaps this will help me.
I actually haven't been too far off the wagon lately.  My husband took me on a writing retreat to the wonderful Sylvia Beach Hotel for my birthday two months ago, and for some reason, I felt inspired to continue a story I had written in college seven years ago.  I didn't have the story with me for reference (so I had to go back and recheck myself when I did find it), but I launched in on a second chapter.  It was a truly cathartic experience, especially since I was looking back on myself in college, and I felt like the character had grown in my mind over the years.  I showed my second chapter to my writing group in June, to very positive reviews, and then July happened.  For whatever reason, I hadn't been able to take my normal writing day at all.  My favorite coffee shop closed down, the only one in which I truly felt productive, and I'm still searching for the right atmosphere.  But this week, I forced myself (with the help of my husband) to write.  I didn't get very far (the country music at the coffee shop I tried was far too distracting), but I did it.
The book I am slowly working through challenged me to give "no disclaimers" about my writing, and to simply put it out there.  The work itself is what should speak.  This is something I always struggle with, never believing that I'm good enough, worth reading, have anything to say.  But it is something I want to work on, and an idea that I want to present to my writing group.  Most of us feel pressured before letting anyone read our work to apologize for it.  But this is the end--no more apologies!  I have just as much to say as anyone else does, and my experiences give me a unique view of life, as much as I believe the same for everyone.  So, along with my WFMAD challenge, I'm challenging myself to quit apologizing and focus my efforts on writing!

As I ran from the bike I could hear the spokes click-click-clicking away as the wheels spun freely.  I left the motion with the bike, and the kinetic intensity of what I had just witnessed remained there with it.  The reflector caught the diminishing strands of sunlight, spraying diamonds on the building I ran toward, creating a funhouse spiral whose center I was now heading for.  Almost a bulls-eye.  I had to leave the bike, for it drew and even more obvious target on me than the one I now ran for.  It wasn't simply that they had seen me take it.  In this town that was a rather minor offense--punishable, sure, but common.  No, it was what I had seen them doing, or rather, that I had seen them and somehow knew what they were about to do.  They were simply looking for a target.

The still-spinning wheels stopped abruptly, the only sound the pounding of my own steps.  I knew I wouldn't be fast enough, could never be fast enough.  They littered this town, so if you escaped one, another would always set a trap for you.  Knowing that I wouldn't be out of their reach soon enough, I chanced a glance over my shoulder.  The tall one had his foot resting on the now-still wheel, a derisive smile twitching the corners of his mouth.  His dark clothes stood out in contrast to the colorful surroundings, daring the last rays of sunlight to brighten him the way it did the rest of the landscape.  The other one ambled up behind him, confident enough in their success to take things slowly.  They had me right where they wanted me.

"Where're you going in such a hurry, son?" asked the first.  His mustache, so odd and out of style, made his face intimidating.  I didn't answer.  There wasn't anything that I could say that could help me out of this situation.

"We seem to have a quiet one here, Mike," the other stated, in a surprisingly high voice.  It was enough of a shock to hear him that it broke my gaze from the first.  "Could be good for him. . .or bad.  Don't know if he'll tell us what we want to hear."

I wasn't completely sure what they were talking about, but I had heard the stories.  These crooked men wanted us for all sorts of reasons, wanted us under their power to manipulate the community to please them.  And they were willing to do just about anything to get us supple and bound to their plans.  The crunch of the gravel sounded sinister as the two men paced slowly toward me, a fly trapped on flypaper.  

It was then that I heard a whisper close behind me.  Realizing who it was even though I couldn't see around the corner, I made the split-second choice to follow.  Suddenly I was off and running again, skidding in the gravel and around the edge of the building, my pursuers taking a moment to get over the shock of me slipping their trap.  I caught my first glimpse of Brandt as I made it to the side of the building, watching as he disappeared into the overgrown field in back.  The grass had gotten so tall that all I could catch was the sun glinting off of his brown hair.  It was my only chance--Brandt knew every shortcut and quick escape this place had, and with him I could disappear and end up safely back at home.  I tore through the field, the orchard grass slapping at my face and bare arms, stinging as I sliced my path through it.  Pretty soon I couldn't see Brandt anymore, and could only hear the shouts of the men chasing me as they struggled through the overgrown jungle somewhere behind and to the right of me.  I felt a hand grab my arm and pull me down hard, knocking my breath out as I belly-flopped on the ground.   "C'mon, you moron--if you want to get out of here, stay down!" came a rough whisper close to my ear.  I looked to my left and saw Brandt, a big smile on his face, his body covered in the dust that rose from the ground.

            I took the tape off of my incision yesterday.  I sat in the shower and let the water fall over me loosening the adhesive that held the strips of cloth to my body, pulling my skin together.  I had been looking forward to this moment for at least a week now, annoyed with the constant irritation and fear that somehow the sticky mess would get caught and torn off, leaving me raw and open.  The days where I had to watch carefully what I wore to avoid rubbing the wrong places, the nights worrying that I would accidentally tear something in my sleep.  Yet, here I was, four days after my outside limit, apprehensive to remove what I felt was holding me together.  I had grown used to feeling the flaky edges of tape rub my hands when checking my wound.  They had become a sort of safety net, and as I peeled the last strip from my body, I felt somehow naked and vulnerable in a new, unexplainable way.  The warnings about coughing and sneezing now had a new resonance—I partially believed that, now that the tape was gone, my body could tear apart at any moment, the severed muscles and nerves wrenching apart once again.  I examined my pink scar in the mirror when I had finished, amazed at how little there was to show for the disability I felt inside.  The skin that had been protected for two weeks now appeared angry, unused to light and touch.  I dabbed gently with a towel and chose my clothes carefully, covering the recently debilitating injury, pretending there were no lasting effects as long as no one could see them.

I have to start by saying that I adore this book that I'm working through.  Nothing else has inspired me to write the way this book has.  I normally struggle with a lot of guilt, believing that my writing takes too much time away from family and housework to bother with it.  But right now I have bread rising, George Winston playing, and my daughter napping; I'm seizing the moment.

Six months from now:
Six months from now will be fall.  My unborn daughter will be six months, and my older daughter just turning two.  Things will be a little chaotic with two young ones, and I may even be taking a class.  However, I hope that by this time I will be well on my way working on my WIP, for which I am currently doing research.  I am hoping that over the summer I will have a chance to get away on a retreat and simply write; this should help my confidence with writing every day.  I would also like to have something published by this point.  One of my main goals is to carve out some space for myself to write.  This may be difficult, as our house is rather small, but perhaps it means getting a smaller dining table and putting a small writing desk in the kitchen.  Or perhaps making a space for myself in the bedroom where I can retreat and not have to look at a messy house. 

One year from now:
Early next spring, I would like to have published two works, and be well into my WIP.  I really don't think I'll be finished with that work (due to the amount of research), but perhaps I will be able to plan a research trip; I would love to be able to visit the East Coast again and solidify any questions that I can't get from other sources.  I would also like to be at the point where I actually consider myself a writer--disciplined, hardworking, and on a schedule that allows for daily work.

Five years from now:
Wow, it's hard to think that far ahead!  It would be wonderful if I could have my WIP published, or on its way.  Seems like such a lofty goal right now, and I keep questioning whether or not I'm good enough for that, but here it is.  I would also like to have a studio.  As, at this point, I'll be halfway into my master's program (or maybe I'll have finished it--I haven't done the math for the time frame), my life will be a little crazy, and getting time away from other responsibilities will be much more difficult.  We have plenty of space in our back yard, and have talked about creating a dual studio for my husband's photography and my writing.  It would be a small building with white walls, wood flooring, and some furniture conducive to portrait photography.  I don't know what chair I would want (I'm really bad at picking out chairs, for some reason), but my desk would be a simple plank spanning one wall that could be closed off by closet doors.  I will have plenty of space for stacking books (one of my major flaws) all over it, and maybe a cork-board on the wall for notes.  Even though I may be teaching at this point, as well as taking care of my family, I want to make sure I still have that time to write.  Perhaps having a studio will make me feel like I need to justify the building.  =)

Writing from the prompt in Pen On Fire by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett.  First, I am to write a letter to a friend who wants to be a writer, dispelling her fears.  Then, I am to use my new outlook to write a letter to myself about plans and projects for my writing.

I understand the guilty feeling you have of putting your writing first.  Even now, my house is a wreck and I'm taking time away from the little time I have alone with my husband to write.  But it's something you have to do in order to be a healthy person.  If you are a writer, if that's what you really feel led to do, you need to write for yourself.  If you do this, then you will be a better person for your family.  I also understand how it feels to not think you have anything to say, or to think that your talent is simply something that you made up on your own.  For me, that's probably where the greatest amount of guilt comes from.  But you will never know unless you try.  I believe that you are a writer, but writing takes time and practice.  Nothing good comes without putting work into it, and this is probably more true for writing than most things.  It's something that comes from you, that comes from your soul, but you will never be able to truly tap into that reservoir unless you practice consistently.  Not writing will simply dam up the ideas and inspiration and then it will take you longer if you decide to once again take up the craft.  I know this from experience.  The only person you can hurt by not writing is yourself, but by writing, you will be healthier, which helps those around you as well.  Also, don't stress about the big things now.  While your goal may be to one day be published, start small, and don't feel like you have to have the ideas for a great novel immediately.  Once you begin to listen to yourself, then the ideas will come.  It takes practice, and I encourage you to spend just a little time each day writing, deepening your talent.

Dear Me,

Sometimes it is best simply to get ideas out on paper--that's what free-writing is all about.  So why not goals and ideas for writing.  First of all, you need to begin to write every day.  That's what is holding you back.  How can you expect inspiration to come when you can't quiet your world for even fifteen minutes.  I want you to take a step back and make time, quiet time, every day to write.  This doesn't mean writing while the kids are awake, begging for attention.  Instead of cleaning the house, or checking your email for the fiftieth time that day, spend nap-times or evenings writing.  Start with fifteen minutes and see where you go from there. 
You also want to work on that idea for a novel, but are finding it very difficult without having done any research.  Start with the research.  Read a couple of books on the subject, gather information, and then begin the writing.  You already have one of the characters in your head, but you need more knowledge on your subject to solidify anything.  Take some time to find this information, and then return to your idea.  It's a good one, and there is very little out there on the subject, but if you take your time instead of plunging in headlong, you will find that your story is more developed and deeper.
As far as short-term stories, look around you.  Some of what you need is time to develop that inner voice that you used to have when you were in the habit, and some of it is that you need to hone your skills for observation once again.  You used to be great at it, but right now, you have your head down and nose to the grindstone.  Take an opportunity to simply people watch and jot down notes.  Tell their stories, and stories about them.  Look for the story in the everyday happenings.
You've considered returning to that short story--J even suggested looking into the background of your character to see what you can find.  Could this be a character study?  A collection of stories that explores who your character is and what has made her this way?  What is the result?
You also have a group goal of publishing, even if it is in a minor setting.  I want you to take a little time to research possibilities.  You don't have to turn to a journal--maybe a magazine article (I know of one locally, in fact, that would be great), or newspaper.  See what's out there, and explore the possibilities. 
You hereby are given permission to take nap-times for yourself and your writing.  If you can only write for fifteen minutes, that's fine.  Use the rest of the time however you want to (maybe in research?).  But if you can write more, do.  This is not a time to catch up on housework.  Try to organize your life a little better (less time online!!) so that you feel able to handle taking a break.  Though you are not getting paid right now, and may not make any money, this is your job.  You need a brain workout--no more dumbing down and hanging out at the cookie level.  Not only will this help you develop your skill, but you will be a healthier person, and feel as though you have purpose and meaning.

I am feeling highly unmotivated in my writing today, but trying to force myself.  I'm focusing on my WIP, and will do research after I finish my entry, so I thought I'd take this time to explore my character, jumping off from an archived prompt from the usual person.  =)  And I apologize because I have not come up with a name yet--I'm horrible with picking names (or so my husband thinks!).

Fears:
In the time in which she lives, ------- has many of the typical fears: war, death, death of a loved one, being caught in her spying activities.  But more than that, she has a fear of isolation.  Her mother died young, and her father raised her, but being the only woman in the house, she was forced to grow up fast and to take care of her family.  This was a very isolating experience for her, to not grow up with a mother to talk to, or another woman who could understand her on that level.  She is also afraid of childbirth, as this was how her mother died.  -----can remember her death, giving birth to her youngest brother, and the agony of it to her mother and the following effect on her family.  ------has another fear that haunts her, that of being stuck, of not being able or allowed to branch out of where she is.  She has already "mothered" a family while she was growing up, so she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life doing the same thing.  She wants a family, but doesn't want to be stuck in the home.

Hopes:
Her most immediate hopes are to marry her sweetheart, and for the safety of her and her family during the war.  Deeper hopes include the hope to prove herself through the spying she takes on, to herself, her husband, and others.  There is an instinctive fear involved, but she is trying to overcome that and to be much more like what she imagines other spy women should be.  She also hopes to travel.  She sees messengers that leave with her information traveling all over the colonies, and she dreams of seeing these places, as well as Europe, after the war.

Childhood:
The third child in a line of five, ------- is the only girl in her family.  She was five years old when her youngest brother was born, when her mother died in childbirth.  Within a couple of years, she began taking her mother's place in the household.  Her father was gone a lot, traveling for business, but they later bought a coffee house, in which ----- still works (for her family).  She is in no position to own it, however, because she is a woman.

Well, there's some background for me to keep in mind!

So, I got some blood drawn today (that first pregnancy blood draw, where they draw FIVE vials of blood), and I almost passed out right there in the office.  Not only was this embarrassing, but it left me weak for most of the day.  I'm going to be in real trouble if I ever try to give blood--then they would take a whole pint!  So, anyway, I was going to use this weakness as an excuse to be a slacker today, and not work on my one work day.  But then I realized I'd never get anywhere if I slack off on all my baby-free days, so I'm trying to squeeze a little out of the rest of the day.  Today's exercise is about character motivation, a scene in which a man decides to pursue a woman, though I'm supposed to explore a motivation other than lust.

As the lights from the chandelier hit the tray of champagne glasses the server held, it reflected onto the woman's skin, casting an amber glow on her face.  It was the first time Jacob had noticed her, but as he watched the gold tones on her skin that now complimented her brown eyes, he was captivated.  It wasn't just the usual enjoyment he got from observing a beautiful woman; this time it was different.  There was an almost ethereal quality to her that no one else in the room had, a sense of translucence that seemed as impossible as it seemed real.  Jacob knew why she was there.  She needed something, just like so many others before her.  His ability to see her as she truly was, to see everyone as they truly were, had become a curse to him.  What good was it to see into the souls of so many?  What could he do for them?  He had watched time and time again--the homeless man on the street, a coworker in his office, even television personalities--watched them fade, sometimes to nothingness.  He questioned the reasoning for all of this, the reason for his own ability to see, when there was clearly nothing to do.  Now, as he watched this woman, he understood  why he had begun having a difficult time seeing himself in the mirror, why he himself had begun to fade. 

As he approached the woman, she looked up shyly at his polite greeting.  "Hello," she half mumbled into her glass, lowering her eyes.

"Could we talk?" he asked, and after her surprised nod, led her off to a quiet corner of the room.

Okay, okay.  Another resolution.  As my mother-in-law is giving me one day off each week (hooray!!), I will strive to work at least that one day.  Possibly more, but we'll start with bite-sized chunks.  After all, writing and reading my day away is much more tempting than my usual "the baby is gone, I can actually clean the house" mode.  Who wants to spend their day off cleaning?  So today I've decided to write on jbknowles ' prompt (her warm-ups always seem to be my kick start), and to hopefully begin my WIP. So, the prompt is, "Describe what FALL is like in your neck of the woods..."

Fall in Corvallis is my favorite season.  Of course, I'm sure you've heard about how much it rains in Oregon, and this season is usually when we begin to feel the wetness and damp soak back into our skin.  But we wouldn't be Oregonians without our eternal dampness and webbed feet, and some strange, almost obscene, love for the rain.  We all have it, somewhere deep down inside.  It's only that it can be buried much, much deeper in some than others.  For me, I love it passionately.
When I lived in California, I felt dried out and hollow during the summer.  One year that I recall, we had no rain between February and October.  Unfortunately for me, this was not atypical.  When the rains would finally come toward the end of September, I would stay outside and play in it, letting it soak and refresh me, while all of the Californians would scramble indoors, afraid of the damp. 
So the rains in fall are renewing for me, as are the colors.  This year we have not quite hit our cold snap, so the trees are, for the most part, still green.  But there is always a weekend or two in October that are ablaze with color, sun shining, with a chill in the air.  This is my perfect fall day. 
Being a college town, football also plays a large role in the change of the season.  The town is painted in orange and black, balloons and banners everywhere.  After games, the patrons at pubs and restaurants spill out to the sidewalk seating, chatting and laughing, bundled up against the cold. 
Most fall days, however, are much like today.  The weather is unpredictable, and you never know just how to dress, despite what the weather report says.  It starts out sunny, gets cloudy and rainy, and goes in and out between the two opposing systems throughout the day.  The perfect day to be just where I am, sitting in a coffee shop, warming myself from the inside out.  It doesn't get much better than this.

I liked this prompt, especially as our rain and thunderstorms (weird, considering that we had record highs a couple of days ago!) are making it feel like fall.  But that's just fine with me, as fall is my favorite season.  So here is my writing to jbknowles' Monday Morning Warm-Up: "Write to the prompt, 'When I think of fall...' Make it a poem! A list! Something one of your main character's would write. Have fun! Share! :-)"

When I think of fall, I think of coffee shops.
Sitting, reading, sipping cider.
Distracting music and voices that we don't mind,
The flame of a fireplace barely keeping me warm,
A good book that is hard to keep my mind on.

When I think of fall, I think of leaves.
Lining streets, pouring down in a gust of wind
A gold that matches the sunlight, even in the cold,
Going out of my way to hear their crunch under my feet,
The yearning to lay down and let them cover me.

When I think of fall, I think of football.
The corners full of fans in orange, matching the trees' colors,
Packed coffee shops on cold mornings,
The sound of cheering heard blocks away,
The feeling of community that surrounds me.

When I think of fall, I think of apples.
The sweet, tangy, ripe smell as they litter the ground,
Making apple crisp and apple muffins and apple sauce,
Cozy houses warmed by the baking,
The ecstasy of those first few bites.

When I think of fall, I think of harvest.
Fields laid bare of their year of work and growth,
Pumpkins hauled in from the vine to work their charm elsewhere,
The green slowly turning to golden brown,
A new start, a clean slate.

Keep in mind, I am not a poet.  In fact, I am one of those strange English Majors who doesn't really care that much for poetry.  Weird, huh?  But I feel that I have to attempt it sometimes.

Today's exercise is to write a prologue about a treasure being buried under a bridge.  I have never written a prologue--haven't even considered it, in fact--so the whole idea intrigues me.  Here we go!  (the plaque I am working from is for a bridge in Youngstown, Ohio, and this is the bridge that I'm picturing, dating back to the same era.


The night was becoming more and more sinister as Lucy stole into the park, shaded by the canopy of trees above which blocked out all moonlight.  She could feel her weak heart beating quickly, threatening to race to its end while she stood there.  It wasn't as if she was in any danger, she told herself.  Youngstown was such a safe, quiet place, after all.  And who would want to harm an old woman.  At least, without knowing what she carried.  But she couldn't shake the feeling that things had changed--that the workers brought into town to work on this bridge had brought something else with them, some sort of atmospheric change that made the future, what little of it she had left, seem ominous, perhaps even dangerous.  She was unused to the feeling, protected as she had always been by her family, never having to ask for anything.  But all of that was over in the now uncertain future.

Her head snapped up, causing her neck to ache at the sudden reaction to an owl's hoot.  Lucy chuckled to herself, feeling foolish for this whole game.  That's what it was, after all, right?  A game played to protect the precious object she held from the greedy misuse that would surely come if her nephew were to gain its possession.  So she did all she could as a woman to keep it from him: hide it.  Her skirts rustled as she moved slowly toward the work site.  The bridge was to be beautiful, almost lacy with its metal suspensions, nicknamed the "Castle Bridge".  Ironic that none would know that it hid a treasure fit for royalty.

She found a large hole next to the foot of the bridge, where the ground hadn't been filled back in after the stone was placed.  This was it--the perfect spot.  She could lay it here, cover it enough that it wasn't visible, and the workmen and the river would do the rest.  As she gently tossed the green metal box into its resting place, Lucy couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.  A shame that so priceless a treasure would have to be buried for so long.  But she knew its fate otherwise, and this motivated her to quickly fill in enough dirt until she could no longer see the glint of her box.  Then, feeling the necessity of not being caught out this late at night, she hurried back the way she had come, as fast as her frail body could force itself, back to the place where she would open her eyes no more.