Author Archives: caseykins

Winner!!!

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Today is the last day of Camp Nanowrimo July, and I am officially a WINNER!  That certificate is fancy, and such nice validation.  What’s also nice is that now I know I’m capable of editing a novel.  If I can get through draft two, I can push my way through draft ten or beyond.  I know I can.  (But hopefully it will never be thirty.  Shannon Hale really shouldn’t have told us that it took her thirty drafts to complete Goose Girl.  Talk about no end in sight…)

There is still plenty wrong with the novel.  I’m beginning to realize that you can’t just take it all in one fell swoop like you can with a short story.  There are too many words, and too many skeins to hold onto as you weave the story.  My first draft was messy.  It was missing chunks of things, it was full of textbook-like explanation, and it kept repeating itself.  The story arc is better now.  There are no chunks missing, and the repeats have been rearranged to appear in their proper place. 

I haven’t read this draft as a whole document yet, so I can’t put my finger on exactly what’s wrong.  I know immediately that something is, though.  I learned in my Novel class last semester that there are several differences between a Novel and a Novella.  A Novel is a story over 50,000 words, and a Novella is a story between 25,000 and 50,000 words.  Beyond just word count, a Novella usually has one main story line, and maybe one sub-plot (maybe).  There is not time to do justice to more.  A Novel usually has a main story line and up to five sub-plots, although two or three is more common.  Blue Gentian currently clocks in at about 45,000 words.  It has three sub-plots.  You see?  I already know I’m not doing the sub-plots justice, that there is a lot missing.  Next is to find out why, where, and how to fix it.  

Draft four will be for Character and dialogue.  Draft five will be to make sure the threading and symbolism is working.  Draft six will be for anything else that I feel I missed, up to and including editing for chapter length.  Chapters with action should be shorter.  They’ll feel like they’re moving faster. 

After draft six, I’ll show it to people.  Brian gets first dibs.  He is my most thorough critic, and best source of advice. I have a feeling my father would also like to read it.  Once I’ve done draft seven (or maybe eight), I’ll put it on Critique Circle.  Then I’ll write draft nine…  

It sounds like a long row to hoe, right?  It really does.  But 50,000 words looks like a far cry from 0 words on day one of Nano.  In small chunks after thirty days, though, it mostly looks impressive.  I plan to be very impressed with my novel once it’s done, too.  I’m confident I can do it.  After all, I already have draft two under my belt.  What’s a few more?  

(Holy crap, what did I just get myself into?)

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First World Problems

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I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately giving tips about what to write about in order to grow your blog audience.  I suppose I’m no expert, but I have found that there are a bunch out there that I vehemently disagree with.  This is one of them:

Don’t write about your first world problems.  Ok, I’m going to just say right now that I have no problems that AREN’T first world problems.  I live in an air-conditioned condo in Southern California.  My husband and I have two cars, two cats, supportive families, and eat regular meals.  We spent our summer vacation in Yosemite.  We have never gotten dysentery from the contaminated water supply.  We’ve never lost loved ones to treatable diseases.

If I can’t write about my first world problems, what am I supposed to write about?

I think what this person really means is “don’t be whiny.”  I agree that no one wants to read about how terrible your life is all the time, especially if you happen to be privileged as I am.  I don’t know if this writer just didn’t realize what they were saying, or doesn’t understand the definition of a first world problem, but they phrased it totally wrong.   While I realize that I’m a very lucky girl, I don’t think that my indoor plumbing makes me ineligible to comment on the imperfect world of American middle class suburbia.  Not all blogs are out there to solve world hunger.  Some are out there to say “isn’t it amazing to be an alive, quirky, imperfect human being? We share so much.”

World hunger is important.  So is unfettered expression.  Surely there is an audience for all of it on the internet.  Write about whatever you please.

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Yosemite

I’m posting Brian’s note about our anniversary trip instead of writing my own.  He feels better about it than I do.  I mean, our tenth anniversary trip was not going to live up to the hype.  I knew that already.  I was just hoping that it would not be filled with all my most glaring faults: my disorganization, my forgetfulness, my inability to physically handle nature, my insecurities about all these faults.  But we did have a good time overall.  I love him lots, and there is no better person to face adversity with. 

Shameless plug:  Brian’s blog is at http://dovearrow.wordpress.com/

The good news is, Casey reserved a tent in Yosemite Valley for the weekend.

The bad news is, she accidentally reserved it for April instead of July.

The good news is, we were still able to get a cabin for the night.

The bad news is, it was 90 degrees outside and we had no air conditioner.

The good news is, the next morning, we were able to hike up to Vernal Falls.

The bad news is, we couldn’t get another room for Saturday night like we hoped.

The good news is, we found a Holiday Inn near Sequoia National Park with air conditioning.

The bad news is, I set Casey’s purse down at General Sherman Tree to take pictures and we left it behind. (Casey edit – it’s so nice that he’s taking credit for my inability to keep track of my purse.  We all know better)

The good news is, we got tickets to tour Crystal Cave.

The bad news is, Casey got the first stages of heat exhaustion on the half mile trip back to the car.

The good news is, when we got home, we had a message on our phone saying they’d found Casey’s purse.

Like our relationship over the years, it was a lot of ups and downs, but like our relationship, we somehow managed to have a lot of fun through it all. I love you, Casey. Here’s to 10 more years of chaos and shenanigans. 🙂

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Things I Learned This Weekend:

The crows at Yosemite say “Pocket, pocket?” in addition to crowing like the normal ones. They are also very fat and glossy.

Western Gray Squirrels hike at the same pace that I do.  Yes, this is very depressing. 

There is a Scandinavian themed restaurant in the raisin capital of the world that has a ten foot tall California Raisin in the lobby.  It also has train, carousel, and medieval weaponry themed décor, and a set of stained glass windows featuring the home life of garden gnomes.  There are black swans in the courtyard.

Of all the things to lose in my purse, it was the National Park passport and the stamps I can never replace that I was the most panicked about.  Although that piano wallet is pretty cute.   

There’s no bed like home (with Air Conditioning!!!!).

 

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Address at the Tomb of Garfield

I wrote my senior thesis on a collection of films made in 1913 by the National Association of the Deaf.  The NAD made the films because they were worried that Alexander Graham Bell would win his war against Sign Language and it would become extinct.  It was a trying time for them.  The Deaf had only found each other a scant generation before, banding together the over education that was finally available to them.  Now society and the wave of Eugenics was trying to drive them apart again.

I felt like I should say something about the films because this year is their 100th birthday.  The first film was made in 1910 and a few more in 1915, but the vast majority were all made in 1913 at the National Convention in Cleveland, Ohio.  Before the films, the NAD was best known for its quest to erect a statue of a famous French teacher of the Deaf, the Abbe de l’Epee.  Infighting was rampant.  The fact that they were able to pull off a project on this scale was remarkable.  It did remarkable things for them.  They solidified as a community in the quest to keep their language.  If the proof is in the pudding, the pudding is that Sign Language is stronger than ever today.   

The movies are beautiful and fun.  They’re all available online free of charge at Gallaudet University’s Library website.  The general consensus as a  favorite is Veditz’s plea for sign language, The Preservation of the Sign Language, which was inducted into the Library of Congress.  He does say powerful things.  I think my favorite might be the Address at the Tomb of Garfield, though.  The collection of movies was funded by private donations of ten cents apiece from the Deaf community.  This is the only time that everyone who donated got to participate and become the star of a film themselves.  The community got dressed up to give a wreath to the newly-fallen president, and be filmed for it on the very last day of the convention.  They look so pleased in their Sunday best, the plumes on the women’s wide hats obscuring some behind them, a man in the middle clutching a large U of fist-sized roses.

I went to Gallaudet University and spent four days flipping through their archives.  I wore white gloves that swallowed my hands and took notes in dull pencil.  The letters were all typewritten except for a few illegible post cards in spidery blue script, and the places they had scribbled notes to each other in the margins.  Most of the correspondence was on left-over stationery from the local auto repair shop, or grocer.  They chided each other for not thinking their small town had a movie theater, or complained about having to help their neighbor brand the new herd of cows.  They urged each other to hang the expense and visit everyone at the convention.  They worried when war broke out in Europe. 

I like to look at this crowd and wonder if I read any of their letters or tried to decipher any of their hand writing during those days at Gallaudet.  Whoever has collected there, identities obscured by age and primitive technology, they seem a lot more personal to me than the rest of the films featuring white men in suits emoting on a dark stage somewhere.  Give me a gleeful crowd in finery instead.  This is the community the films allowed to survive.

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Menagerie

Sometimes working at Disney is awesome.  Evidence is below.

Me this morning: So Zachary said we really need to keep the monkeys.  But what he didn’t realize was that there were a whole bunch of monkeys that aren’t show quality and need to be destroyed.

Overheard several weeks ago:  I don’t know, you’d better have them leave the lights on.  We’re going to need to shave the rabbits, and we can’t shave rabbits in the dark.  

Overheard a few days before the last:  Yeah, Lincoln is leaking again, so we’ll have to have an audio animatronics person change his diaper.

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The Magic Of Interlibrary Loan

Chapman revoked my library card last week.  It’s because I’m not a student there anymore, and not because of the late fees I’ve paid every semester.  No really.  I promise.  I always return things eventually, and I always pay.  They like kids like me.  They’re making money off of my inability to keep dates straight, and I get to read amazing things.  It works for both of us.  Or it worked for both of us.

I’ve been forlorn about not having access anymore.  Interlibrary loan is my favorite thing in the entire world.  The Chapman Interlibrary Loan people are some of the best around, and they can get ANYTHING.  When I was writing my senior thesis, the man behind the marble front counter handed me a crumbling something between two duct taped sheets of cardboard.

“For library use only,” he said.  “You can’t take it out.” 

“Can I copy it, if I need to?” I asked. 

“Yeah, no problem.”

I went to the collection of armchairs on the second floor.  Wide windows look out on the piazza below where water pools between four square pillars.  I sank into a chair and lifted a corner of the cover.  It was about the size of a half sheet of paper, a yellowed pamphlet about the importance of sign language written in 1914 by the National Association of the Deaf.  It was not a copy.  It was the actual pamphlet.  I almost cried.  It was just so beautiful.  I still have the black and white duplicates I made in a brown, faux leather binder at home.

“I once got an actual 18th century French field manual through Interlibrary Loan,” said the dedicated History librarian when I told him about it. 

This is in addition to all the amazing books the library always has.  I’ve worked my way through the large section they have on Deaf culture, all the books on the American Puritans, and cut a swath through the vast Young Adult section.  They have the entire collection of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series, and I keep thinking I need to read them all.  It seems that whatever my latest obsession becomes, they have the books to support the habit. 

All is not completely lost.  I found out from a newsletter that I can get a special alumni library card.  I did a little dance sitting at my work computer when I found out.  It takes seven days for my card to travel through the mail, after I fill out the form and upload a head shot.  I pulled up the website immediately, and clicked through to the privileges an Alumni card gives.  Interlibrary Loan is not one of those things. 

I get it.  That department has enough to do, tracking down obscure copies of primary source material for the people who are actually studying or working there.  I’m disappointed, though.  As wonderful as their library is, I can’t order up snippets of the past and pick them up two weeks later.   I can’t touch the pages people touched hundreds of years ago.  I will never again take a duct taped sleeve of cardboard from the hands of the person at the front desk and uncover more than I thought was possible.   

It’s enough to make a girl want to get a Master’s Degree.

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Ten Years

It was hot and muggy the day I got married.  The earth was buried in wisps of hot cloud, and alligator drops landed on our shoulders as we stood at the altar.  My hair was terribly frizzy, with no hope that it would ever be otherwise.  But it was a beautiful event, a beautiful day, and we looked young and happy in the pictures as was proper.  I looked at my father, face buried in his handkerchief, felt the warm drops on my shoulders, and thought that both my fathers were crying – the mortal and the immortal.  Tears pooled in my eyes, too.  I let them spill over and thought to myself, damn it, I can’t believe I lost the bet on who would cry first.

It is a scant six days from my ten year anniversary, and the same sort of rain is pouring from the sky right now.  My hair is as frizzy as it was on that day, but everything else has changed immeasurably.  We are not living in an apartment where the alley is sprayed with graffiti every night where our things were continually stolen.  We both have jobs.  There are two cars in our garage.     

We’re going away, the 19th-21st.  It’s not the honeymoon I never got like I hoped it would be.  Student loans and part-time employment saw to that.  But it will be nice, and romantic.  Brian is not allowed to know where we’re going until we get there, so I won’t tell the internet either.  The clues he has are that it’s a bit of a drive, it’s still in California, and it is sort of like camping, but really not like camping at all.  Tantalizing, isn’t it?  I have a wide grin on my face, and my eyes are sparkling at your frustration.  This is half the fun.

Ten feels a lot like three, and a lot like seven, and a lot like all the other years in between.  We always wake up underneath our white down comforter, look at each other, and say “can you believe it?”  This year, I really can’t.

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Tim, not Tam

I thought I’d post more fiction.  This was an assignment for a class I took last semester.  It had to be exactly 300 words, each word could only be a syllable long, and it had to mimic a sound.  It also had to be a complete story, with a beginning, middle and end, and I was given the first line.  I went for a typewriter:

The phone rang twice. Tim peaked at the time. It was too late for calls. Tim tipped his seat to take it.

“Tim. Talk,” he said.

“Tam…” the tone spat, “Tam’s time ticks.”

“No, not Tam. Tim,” said Tim.

“We stab Tam soon-”

“What?” Tim broke in, “Don’t you know it’s close to twelve? Trashy tales waste my time. This isn’t Tam. I’m Tim.” Tim hung up.

Night tickled the room. Tick, tock the clock clicked.

Tap, Tap. A tree branch hit the pane.

Tim touched his palms to his brow. I’m too tired for this, he thought. The clock struck twelve. Time to turn in. Tim stood, and stepped toward the stair.

Tap, Tap. The tree branch turned. It was a hand. It bent and twitched at Tim. “Tam…” it squeaked.

Tim turned. “No, not Tam. Tim.”

“Tam… you took it. You didn’t ask. You tried to take it by tricks, but now it will take you.”

The sill creaked. Many a piece of tall, trim Night met at the center of the room.

“My title is Tim, NOT TAM,” said Tim.

“Tim, not Tam?” the tone asked.

“Yes!” said Tim.

“Tsk, tsk. Sorry,” the Night squeaked. Then it left.

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Camp Nanowrimo July

It is Camp Nanowrimo this month.  I wasn’t going to participate because I don’t need to write any more horrible first drafts of novels until this current one is in shape.  And then I realized that I have exactly 31 chapters that are unedited.  That’s one for every day in July. 

I am officially giving myself 1615 words for every chapter I complete, for a total of the traditional 50,000 by the end.   Thanks to my Logic final exam I’m a chapter behind.  But I can totally catch up and win.  Giving myself a deadline has made the novel much better behaved.  I think I whipped it into shape with this scheme, opposed a little discipline.  I’m feeling like the enforcer. 

Well, I was until this morning, anyway.  I’ve been in editing mode for so long that I’ve reached a chapter which needs to be added and I’m feeling really loathe to write anything from scratch.  Make stuff up?  Out of my own head?  But it’s so haa-ard.

Ok, I’ll stop whining now and put my hands back to the keyboard.  Must make word count!

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