My Rejection from Eyeshot... :)

Re: submission: Flesh of the Bones of a Body‏
From: Lee Klein (lee@eyeshot.net)
Sent: 13th of December 2008 17:55:06
To: Annelie Widholm

Hi - thanks for sending this - I like the instinct of the prose, words rolling over words etc as you described it - but maybe with this one I couldn't quite see too deeply beyond the language (a few errors in there distracted too). When you got to Susie I really wasn't engaged enough to see this name come to life. Maybe that's my fault. But again I like the instinct, just prefer to SEE a world more than see language, or more so: I prefer to see both simulatneously, like chewing gum and walking . . . Thanks for sending this and sorry and good luck and send more whenever.

Lee

Sample Review: "Buried" by Jeremiah Nemeth

I was once right there, where some of you surely are - working hard to construct proper feedback for someone else's work and feeling that you're not entirely sure of what you're doing. I would love to offer some guidance to anyone out there who feel that reviewing other people's work is the trickiest thing in the world. Here's one of my reviews, left for a fellow screenwriter on Zoetrope.

Dear Jeremiah -

let me begin by giving you props for finishing your screenplay! Celebration all around!

Also, I would like to commend you on your dialogue, which I thought was truly great and flowed with ease on the page sometimes, while at others it full-on shone! Let me give you the moments I thought worked especially well:

BRANDO
Try to sucker you
into a fuckin’...
Makes air quotation marks.
...“relationship”.

I thought this was the first truly funny bit of your screenplay. It created a nice, quick visual of Brando making the ironic gesture while speaking the abhorred word.

MRS. ANDERSON
Is he a cop also?

BRANDO
No. He’s a criminal.

Funny, dude!

GLOVES
You don't fuck... with the Canuck.

This line was great in its rather slow, deliberate delivery, to then be declared unintentional. It was a really nice twist and brought the line home for me.

The driver is LESTER DEEDS(28). He is overly dressed in an Armani suit, looks out of place in the beat up jalopy he drove up in.

Very strong, nice visual of the first impression this man makes. He's out of place in the car, he's out of place in the suit itself, and out of place in the dirty part of the world he's in, since he's really a cop. It totally works!

I thought the exchange between Debbie, Brando and Jake was nicely constructed when Debbie held the lesson on the two types of BJ's. Well done!

Jake spits some half chewed hamburger onto his tray, looks over to a stunned Brando.

JAKE
Wait. It woulda been more dramatic mid-drink.

Jake takes a giant swig of Soda -

- BLASTS the soda all over Mike’s face, acts surprised.

Mike wipes the soda from his eyes, nods and smiles. Should of seen it coming.

Brando gives Jake a look. Turns to Mike.

I just love this part. It's great! Small correction - he should have seen it coming, not should of seen it coming. Other than that, the mood and tone are beautiful and how Brando merely gives Jake that slight look before turning to Mike just punctuates the sort of friendship these guys have. It's lovely.

These were not all, but most of the parts of the script that really stuck out to me and that I wouldn't tell you to cut or change around, at least not too much. Ready for the constructive part of the criticism? Alright, here we go:

While I just loved most of the dialogue, I had a few structural concerns. I've been taught that the ... should never appear in a screenplay, but instead we use the -- if someone is trailing off or possibly when they're cut off mid-sentence. Otherwise a full stop should be used. I'm not telling you this is how it is, simply the way I've been taught. Here's an example:

As Debbie is now gone.

JAKE
(mouth still full)
I like her.

MIKE
I’m glad you said that--

He looks around nervously, leans in.

MIKE (CONT’D)
--she’s gonna be our fourth.

I would also like to give you a heads up on your description lacking much description. To be honest, the whole screenplay was rather blank of any scenery or settings whatsoever. A room was a room, outdoors was outdoors. It makes the read a little bit flat and it makes it slightly more difficult for me to actually find a visual for this world you're trying to draw me into. Another example:

Your version -

INT. KITCHEN-SAME

Three boys sit at the kitchen table playing ‘draw’ poker.

My attempt -

INT. KITCHEN - DAY (I have been taught to believe that Same and Later are overrated and shouldn't be used too much. Showing the reader of your script whether it's Night or Day is, in my humble opinion, all that is really necessary to help their mind set the background of the scene. If the scenes follow after one another, that will be apparent anyway. Sorry, completely sidetracked here. On with the scene itself--)

The room is small. Worn linoleum covers the floor, a few of the kitchen cabinets hang slightly askew and one is glaringly missing its knob. The refridgerator hums against one wall. A clock ticks somewhere not too far off.

At the kitchen table sit three young BOYS. They have playcards in their hands and focused looks on their faces. CANDY is scattered all over the table.

See what I mean? There's a need for you to set the scene, you need to decide the surroundings, and the visual impression that goes with it. You have to decide if the kitchen is airy and light, homely, clean, is there a mother around to clean it - no. Are they in a wealthy part of the city - no. Little snippets of information can be infused into Description, which are as vital as where the storyline takes me as the reader, as well as the dialogue between the characters. I'm not assuming that you don't know this already. I've been wrapped up in my characters, too, and they have run away with me and I've left the description behind as well, but I thought it important that I point it out to you in case you've missed it. Description is where you get a chance to subtly make your voice heard, as well as create a nice backdrop for your characters. It's incredibly important to your script as a whole, and there was barely any of it in there. I think I brought up the few truly stellar visuals in the portion above, listing my likes.

I also sometimes found your use of description to be mildly confusing and it was hard for me to create a clear visual from what you were describing. Let me try to show you what I mean by using, yes, yet another example. (Isn't this exciting?) :)

What you wrote:

CAPTION: NINE YEARS EARLIER

INT. BEDROOM- DAY

Still of Gloves spanking a young Mike.

Gloves drops the hammer. Same spanking from opening scene.

Gloves eventually tires to a stop.

Little Mike runs off, crying. Gloves looks on. Visibly regrets hitting him.

My explanation of my confusion:

"Still of Gloves spanking a young Mike." - I'm with you there - a freeze-frame of Mike getting spanked, from a scene earlier in the script.
"Gloves drops the hammer." - I was visually confused here. I understand the expression to "drop the hammer", "lay down the law" whatever. But I think it's too strong for this context, as a hammer can be used as a tool to harm someone. When reading too quickly, my mind didn't connect and I had to go back and re-read. (Might just be me being slow, of course)
"Same spanking from opening scene." - this REALLY confused me. There was no spanking in your opening scene - as in, the opening scene of the script and that is, generally, what referring to the "opening scene" means. If you meant the opening line of the current scene, then this needs to be cleared up, and I'm not even sure you need the referral at all.
As you opened with a Still or a Freeze Frame of the beating Mike took earlier on in the script, it jolted me a bit when the action was so suddenly moving forward. Here's what I might do to clean it up a little:


CAPTION: NINE YEARS EARLIER

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

A frozen frame of Gloves spanking a young Mike.

His hand begins to unfreeze, slowly starting to move down through the air toward Mike's behind, the hand picks up speed until CLATCH it's in real time as the scene plays out.

Mike is crying, but Gloves is dropping a hammer that he feels needs to be dropped. Eventually he tires to a stop.

Little Mike runs off, crying. Gloves glances toward the door. He visibly regrets hitting him.

I even worked the dropping the hammer bit in there. :) What do you think? See where I'm coming from with it?

And then there were a bunch of little irks I had with the text that made it not make much sense to me. I'll give you a few, with explanations, and you might see what I mean:

In the beginning you have Mike's brother watching TV. I jotted down a note about it not being believable that a child that young would simply turn off the TV on his own accord and follow his brother upstairs without even one line of dialogue telling him to come. There would be whining, probably, and perhaps Mike would have to promise he could continue to watch TV upstairs instead. Now - having read the entire script - I find the presence of the brother to be unnecessary, as he doesn't return as a character. I say, cut him.

I like the name Brando for Brando, but then you have Glover for Gloves, making me think of Danny Glover, and it started to feel like you would have Pacino and Gibson join in with the boys any second. Just a first impression I'd like to make you aware of.

GLOVES
As you know...I don’t conduct
business here. Now I’m askin’ you
boys nicely to leave. But askin’
“nicely”...that there’s a limited
time offer.

Whoa! This was muddled, my friend. Took me five read-throughs to get what you were trying to say with it.

GLOVES
As you know, I don’t conduct
business here. Now I’m askin’ you
boys nicely to leave, but askin’
“nicely” - that there’s a limited
time offer.

Little less muddled. Agree?

I also thought that you could have made the hitmen sweat a bit more. Gloves is a pretty darn gosh good character. He's really very cool. And the set-up with the cane being a sword (though I recognize it strongly from somewhere... only I think that time the cane was a gun) was great. I thought the description around how the cane turned out to be a sword was another rather confusing part, description wise, but I won't get into it now. What I'm trying to get at is that if Boo-Boo knows Gloves since old, I feel he shouldn't be surprised at what happens when they enter Gloves' sanctuary bearing weapons. His reaction and following comment to Yogi should have been more along the lines of "Aw, shit. Now, what the fuck did I tell you before we walked through the door? Hmh? Fuck." Or something not far from that. Get me?

I found this transition to be perplexing, on page 45:

As he sets the case into the darkness of the safe...

INT. RANDOM BED ROOM- PRESENT DAY

Jake, in his work clothes -

- urinating in the middle of a bedroom floor.

The "..." lead to no conclusion whatsoever, and yes, it's true that you shouldn't underestimate your reader and treat them as though they need everything pointed out to them and repeated into oblivion, but you also cannot expect me to understand what those dots symbolize. They would be instead of a "--", which would mean that the Scene Heading which follows it would be having something to do with it, but it doesn't. Consider:

He sets the case into the darkness of the safe.

END FLASHBACK.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

The room is cream-colored and minimalistic, nothing but a bed, a nightstand and a cream-shaded painting on the wall taking up any of the space. That is, if you don't count Jake.

He is wearing his work uniform and is carelessly urinating into the thick cream-colored carpet covering the floor.

I've always felt that a script should be to the point. It's such a narrow space to play with words, and so you should play with them where it does most good - in the direction and dialogue - and keep the rest of the script as clean-cut as possible. It's good to leave room for the imagination, but using RANDOM in your scene heading, to me, only makes me feel lost and as though I have to do a lot of the ground work that should have been done by you. This is your vision, after all, not mine. You should want to bring me into it, not leave loose ends hanging. They're only disorienting, trust me! Tie them up! Make the description count for something. Show me where the characters are, and let their surroundings reflect on their personalities and situation.

I had one big issue with the plotline: It was never clear to me why the money had been left in the safe for nine years while the house was sold to strangers. I would think, that kind of money and none of them in jail, they would let matters settle down after the Marrick brothers' execution, and then they would covertly collect the treasure. This is a plot hole in need of filling.

On the topic of the Marrick brother's, would Martin actually kill them in the police station, where witnesses knew he was the last one to see them etcetera? Okay, you put Jail Kitchen, but this seems an even less plausible place for him offing them. It's completely unrealistic, I'm sure you see that to, nay? You need to change the scenery there, I think.

Alright, I'm going to wrap this review up here with these words - I really, really think you know how to build a good story, with believable characters. The interaction between the friends were great. So was Debbie thrown into the mix. I really loved the Gloves character and I thought the Julian Martin Lester twist at the end was quite good. Do a few rewrites, go through the script and look for mistakes and places that might feel a little unclear and you're well on your way to having a very nice script on your hands! Thanks for the hours well spent!

Best of luck,
Annelie.

And to break it down, here's really all you need to remember when writing a review that shouldn't offend, but be supportive and helpful (which I hope the above was):

Begin with highlighting the positive, this will make it easier for the writer to ease into the constructive criticism.

Continue with digging deep into the constructive, remembering here to try and be as specific as you possibly can be, because an unfinished sentence that leaves room for interpretation can be interpreted as snotty, rude, any number of things that makes the writer less inclined to listen to your advice, however well-meant it might have been.

End with underlining the positive, leaving the writer with a sense of hope, so that they're eager to get back to work and make their story stronger and better than ever.

Best of luck!

My Submission to Eyeshot...

In my eyes you're the rotting flesh of the bones of a body already dying, and when I rip into you, you barely even feel it; those tears in your eyes, welling up in your eyes, show your gratitude, your happiness in the moment of death: I bring you peace; I allow you to surrender, to give it all away, all the obsessing over your hair is too flat, but your stomachs all bloated and your feet always hurt but you can't buy new shoes 'cause there's rent to pay and mouths that so badly needs to chew and chew and chew away at your will to live.

You said it.

You said Sometimes I Have No Real Will To Live - and it was so simple and plain and direct that I knew it had to be the truth. You pride yourself in being a slave to the Blackberry and the IKEA blackboard in your kitchen and the hand on your thigh from your slave husband that signals his need to plunge himself into you and drip drip drip forth new life, but that's the lie, when your mouth, your lips tell me that you look for an escape every single morning before forcing yourself to rise and go on. Go on. You can let go.

Your flesh tear. In this moment I usually hold on tight. You don't know of the others. Maybe you'll meet them. Like Susie.

No more burned toast, no more runny eggs, no more fearing your reflection (the wrinkles making you stop smiling), no more clingy in-laws with their sticky friendliness, no more kids yelling for their mommy. Rest.

The blade is biting into the skin of your belly, looking as though it's being swallowed, inch-by-inch, by a shapeless, lip-less mouth, pursed around the stainless steel - hungry - submissive - welcoming. All skin is like that when a blade touches it. It opens itself up with eagerness, showing its true color in something I've always considered pride. I stroke the blood onto my fingers and draw lines across my face to show I honor it; I am the Angel; I am the One Out; Single Salvation; you recognized me and so did those who came before you. You will meet them, I think. Like little Susie Salmon in the story you read from once - you said it moved you, but you stood stock still and I secretely thought you were mocking me with the expression, which I hadn't if you'd even raised a hand to your temple, but you didn't, you just stood there and talked about a dead character in a book - how you really cared about her, how you'd cried many times seeing your eldest [Amanda] in everything Susie said, everything Susie did. Everything happening to Susie. Poor Susie, you said. I know what you're thinking now, I know what you're feeling: tiny pebbles down your back and thoughts as blank as the untouched snow in the backyard; the kids will ruin it for sure, but your brow doesn't have to crinkle as you see the prestine visual be desecrated by little feet - you will be too high up to see it. You will be safe.

I let my hold go and I let it lie down, I leave the blade in it, in the flesh of the bones that will be rotting off the dead body that bears your face and can show the one who will find it that you left it in the way I intended. I correct my watch, hanging limp off my wrist, always half a size too big - time is not my ally - and I stare it in the face with reproach of its rush rush rushing along much quicker than anticipated. There's the car door; there's the sharp giggle that, had you been here to hear it, would have signaled you to put your mother-face on: laughs, kisses, hugs, applauds at random scribbles called Today's Artwork and proud pats on heads and immediate magnet-supplemented adding to the other pictures decorating the refridgerator and God and his angels and the Devil and his demons all wonder with me how you trapped yourself in this existence, this half-life, this unawareness of what burdens you have placed on your thin shoulders, unnecessarily. Tragic.

Tragic is the way the mundane approaches in the guise of stability, harmony, prayers being answered, to wrap itself around you as if warming you, never leaving room for interpretation, for the heat to rise above what's comfortable, for the realization to hit before the seconds have rolled by that would have made it possible for you to break its habit.

I am freedom.

You don't have to worry about a thing, I promise you, I will free them too, and your family will be intact, preserved and safe - forever.

Here they come.

A View of the Thames

I had one of those uber-vivid dreams last night, where I actually got confused when my alarm clock woke me up in the middle of it.

Before I tell it to you, let me give you some background story:

About a year ago I came home from working as a mother's help in London. I was employed by Mr. and Mrs. B and got along really well with them. They have three gorgeous boys and has recently gotten an addition to the family, but I've yet to meet her. Since I got back home, I've moved into my first apartment and I'm so in love with it I sometimes wish I could go Brad-Pitt-in-FightClub on it and just blow all my possessions to bits. My God, the things you own truly does end up owning you. But, I'm in love, and so toughts of fire or breakage of any type sends actual chills down my spine.

Bet you think my dream was about my apartment exploding.

It wasn't.

Actually, it was a very nice dream, and I will get to my point once I've told you what it was.

I dreamed that I was back in London, working for Mr. and Mrs. B, and feeling quite happy with the situation. I loved being back in Town, and spending time with the boys - I miss them dearly. But there was a nagging feeling at the back of my head of something not being quite right.

When I worked for them in reality, I was a live-in. In my dream, they had gotten me an amazing apartment that was actually built so that it jutted out over the Thames, and I had huge panorama windows overlooking Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. It was awesome. (And not a little inspired by "Secret Diary of a Call Girl.") I lay in my bed that night and thought that, all things considered, this really wasn't that bad. And I slept. And I woke. And into my home strolled this pert young nanny with a baby on her hip. I had no idea what she was doing there until she opened her mouth and started talking about choosing which room should belong to who. Then I realized, to my horror, that she was my room-mate. I was going to share the place.

Hell no.

Luckily, as we were having breakfast, I saw Mr. B outside the window, which was thankful since I desperately needed to speak to him immediately. Mrs. B was there as well. I brought them onto the pateo and sat down opposite them, explaining how grateful I was to them for the opportunity, but telling them that the conditions were unacceptable, that I had made no promise to stay with them indefinitely, and that I still had my apartment back home.

I really missed my own, private, chosen corner of the world.

And when I woke up, at first, I could only think "Where am I?", but then I understood that I was home, that I hadn't had to travel all that distance and ride the bus and pay all that money to get there: all I needed to do was open my eyes. I was so relieved. And it felt, and still feels, so good to know that - however much I still want to get out there and travel some more in a year or two - for now I'm right where it makes me the happiest to be.

Contentment, people. It does wonders for the soul.

:)

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Christmas.

There are so many visual stimulants pouring through my head at the mere word: Christmas stockings, Christmas trees, Christmas lights, Christmas shopping, Christmas food. There's that warm glow of candles on people's faces and the smell of oranges and gingerbread and glögg (which, I grant you, is a very Swedish scent, but still, it's Christmas for me.)

I bought a wonderful edition of Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" in a little antiques bookstore in London, and though this was printed in the forties and as such is hardly an antique, it's really charming and has illustrations in it that just elevates it even further. I read it last Christmas and I believe I shall do so again this year. It's such a fantastic story.

I'm a traditionalist when it comes to the big holidays. I dislike change and especially around Christmas, when I find it hard to retain that true magical feeling unless things are as they always were when I was little. My father said that this year he really would like to get a plastic tree to save the hazzle of caring for a real one - I berated him for ten minutes. Well, practically. At least I had mom on my side and he ended the argument by throwing his hands up in the air, stating that he had only been kidding. Yeah, nice going, dad, almost giving me a heart attack.

I'm currently working on a script taking place during Halloween. Yes, it's a horror script and yes, I'm unoriginal and boring, but it's actually coming along quite nicely. However, I do feel like writing something Christmas-y. I began a Christmas ghost story of my own last year that I never got around to finishing. Christmas turning into New Year turning into spring and summer and all that. I might stretch my fingers a little and see if I can't finish it this year. Maybe I'll even post it here.

Enjoy the season.
Send the love forward.

My Picture Challenge Response

I woke early in the morning from the rain, smattering hard as nails on the tin roof, situated on the other side of the slanted roof of my bedroom. I lay under the duvet, pulling it up over my chilly shoulders and allowing my body heat to spread into the cool cotton of the duvet case, translating itself into warming my skin; as though the heat was on a loop from me to the fabric and back again.
I had dreamed something, but couldn't recall anything but the sensation of peace. I wished I could bring it forward as easily in my waking state as I had when sleeping. Now, with the light of the wide living room window reflecting itself against the whiteness of my walls and irreversably lighting up the gloom of my bedroom, I had to succumb to the fact that nothing had changed since yesterday. I had so hoped that it would.
I had prayed for a miracle to swoop down and save me from this half-life, where I felt I was on the brink of a great discovery that would send me into the adventures I so longed for, and yet it seemed I never quite tipped the edge. Balance.
"Balance yourself and you can accomplish anything," my mother had said encouragingly.
I was five years old and attempting to ride my bike without training wheels.
"Balance yourself and nothing will bring you out of focus," my mother had prompted.
I was fifteen and waiting to take the SAT's.
"Balance yourself," my mother asked me on the night my father left. "Because otherwise I'm afraid I might fall."
Balance.
The rain was harsh outside, as though it wished to drain the world, not be forced to look at the ugly brick buildings of our block anymore, but cover them in softly flowing currents and curdling waves.
I listened to my mother and I centered myself. I did it with the ardour of someone who wishes, more than anything, to please. But in succeeding, I stopped pleasing myself. Balance came at a cost, and my own free will began to seep out of me on the night my father decided that he could no longer live with us. My mother needed me, and I began to need her to the brink of seeing myself only through her eyes, waiting breathlessly for the next word out of her mouth so that I would know how to act, how to behave.
The rain beat down on the roof in a deafening tirade, as though it too wished to join in my berating of myself.
When had I transformed into this strange shell? When had I stopped wanting? Lately I had begun to ask myself these questions more and more frequently, but I couldn't quite bring myself to answer them. For years all I had wanted was for my father to come back to us, for us to be a family again - the family I had grown up in. He used to brush my mother's hair out of her face so tenderly and look at her with so much love. I couldn't understand how love like that could ever disappear. Where would it go? When my father failed to return, when he even stopped his regular calls, I supposed I began to loose faith. In everything.
I felt a cold drop of rain fall on my forehead.
Had I known what that drop of rain would signify, I wonder if I would have acted differently. However, I didn't know, and kicking the duvet off my legs I got out of bed and went to wake my mother.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy!

I still feel very proud of myself that I made it. Yes, I do. I wrote 50 000 words in November (50 158, to be exact) and I met the National Novel Writing Month deadline by one day. I did a little happy dance in my chair when I watched the wordcount at the bottom of my Word document click itself passed 50 000; arms up in the air and booty sliding against the seat, oh yeah.

However, I am far from finished. And with this I don't mean that I have written a 50 000 word first draft of a book and am now looking down the barrel of editing and rewriting said draft.
No.
I mean that I have probably at least 150 000 more words to go before I even have a completed first draft, and part of me is actually looking forward to that barrel, because that would mean that all these tiny steps, leading up to that big reaching-toward-the-sky surrender of all my free time to get the first draft into a second and third and finally presentable final draft, would be done, and when those tiny steps are done, then I get to go head first out there and see if I got what it takes. I'm so ready to try. I wish all the work was done.

Then again, the idea I've been working on has been in my head for four years, and the characters have been like friends that I've forcefully trapped within me and no matter how much they begged me to set them free I've kept telling them that I wasn't ready, that my language was too unpolished, that I wouldn't be able to build the world I wished for them with the tools that I had so far gathered.

And now, I'm happy that I decided to allow them to create the world for me. I mean, I know that's how it has to go - the characters take you by the hand for the first stretch of the road, and then, when you begin to glimpse something on the horizon, it's your turn to lead them and shape that mirage into something real, something that becomes like a home to you, something you can feel comfortable with and know inside and out so that no question about it could ever throw you. It is so much fun! And I love these characters so very much.

Because of this, I think that the 150 000 words that I have left to write will actually be easy to get down on the pages. A little whistle while I work and a good, structured routine and I'm sure I will get there in the end.

I will admit, it surprises me how slow the process is when I'm dealing with original characters and setting, while when I write fanfiction it's as though the words and places and character traits simply bleed out of my fingers and onto the page. That the characters are clear to me aren't very surprising, naturally, but I barely have to think about where the story is headed either, and the story isn't told to me from the get-go: it's simply there, forming itself onto the page without me having that much to do with it.

Whereas with this original story that is all mine, it's almost as though I have to tell myself not to overthink it. It's so strange, because as I've been writing The Basics series for this blog, I've been talking about these things, about methods to help yourself NOT to overthink it when you're writing that first draft and yet I see how easy it is to trap yourself into revision at an early stage. You get worried that you're leaving dangling little ends untied and all that crap, when it honestly doesn't matter. You read through it later, and you can always incorporate a way to tie them up, or simply find that you had no use for the little window you left open for yourself, and then you will simply close it shut.

The white page isn't scary, it's simply waiting, and it's the most patient companion you could ever ask for. And I've realized it even more that it's all about committing to your relationship with the page. There are so many distractions, so many ways to cheat on it - the TV, the radio, the dishes, the trash, the laundry, the DVD shelf, the bookshelf, the magazine pile on the coffee table; the deliciousness of getting up from in front of the page and going to do something else is almost irresistable - but.

But don't ever give into it.

Schedule breaks. That's the trick. Then it isn't cheating, and it isn't giving in, and it won't drag you away for longer than you allow it. You're in control. I mean, we're all only humans, every writer must remember that, and a break can be necessary; but writing a thousand words an hour isn't too much to ask. I found that once I actually sat down and started writing and got into a good word rhythm, I had trouble stopping, instead. For me, it's the chapter breaks that are the hardest. It's as though I feel I should be done when I start a new chapter, I should be able to go and spend the rest of my day doing something more relaxing and a helluva lot less stressful. (Yeah, we all know that it is stressful to write a book, and your head gets clogged down with thoughts and conundrums and plot twists and where is it all headed.) And usually, a new chapter means a slight change in state of mind, which always drives me out of the chair for a break, no matter how I try. But then, I do something worth while with that time, I give myself half an hour of TV, or finishing off the dishes, but I keep it time restricted and when that time is up, I'm ready to sit my ass down again and start typing.

I'm sure we all have our own ways of dealing with the process, and I would seriously love to hear from anyone of you willing to share yours.

And if you didn't partake in the NaNoWriMo this year, I hope I will see you next November!

Love from Me.