(Note: I have no idea if these are actually referred to turn-faucets and push-faucets, but that’s what I’m calling them, okay?)

On one hand, you have turn-faucets. They offer a wide range of control. Temperature, volume, duration. With a turn-faucet, you can decide all of those factors and more. Turn-faucets are versatile and accommodating.

(Although the one in that picture is not particularly stylish.)

(But it IS the kind we have in our condo.)

On the other hand, you have push-faucets. One press does it all, and one press is all it does. You get about twenty seconds of water that you can only hope is neither frigid nor searing. (Usually it’s frigid.) Push-faucets are easy but limited.

You can see where this is going, right?

Some writers trickle out a few words one day, then pour whole chapters the next. Other writers produce a steady stream of paragraphs each time they sit down to work. The question was, which kind of writer was I going to be?

Now, I can type (conservatively) 60 words per minute, which means I should be able to write 3,600 words per hour. And yet, when I have to craft those words into sentences, shape them into story, my rate goes waaaay down.

Maybe it’s because I sit facing a wall.* Or because I work at home instead of going out to coffee shops and libraries. Or because I use Scrivener. Or Chrome. Or a Mac. Or…

Yeah, I know.

Anyway, back in October when I was getting really frustrated about my progress (or lack thereof), the We Heart YA girls suggested I go on a writing retreat. To eliminate distractions. To get rid of any and all (stupid) excuses. To make the final push and Finnish my book.

Or as I saw it: To prove once and for all that I could be a turn-faucet.

As Barney Stinson would say: Challenge accepted.

After doing some research, I settled on Fort Harrison State Park in Indianapolis. It was relatively close and inexpensive, and it seemed like a nice place. (Definitely was.) I went alone, worked furiously from Friday afternoon to Sunday evening, and was really looking forward to blogging about my lovely, triumphant getaway on Monday morning.

But as you all know, I didn’t finish my manuscript that weekend. I didn’t even finish it later that week. No, it took me another 3 months to finish. Why?

Because I am a push-faucet.

…

For a while, I felt like a failure. The further I got from the weekend, the more it seemed like I was NEVER going to finish. Like I was a fool for thinking I ever could. Then one day, I got SO far away that it didn’t even matter. And that was when I finally had enough emotional distance to realize the truth.

That weekend was a huge success.

(In a way.)

That weekend in Indy taught me that no matter how perfect the circumstances, I really can’t write more than 2 hours at a time, and in those 2 hours, I average about 500-700 words. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, or how bad I want it, I simply am not a turn-faucet. That’s not a tragedy; that’s just a reality. And as long as I accept it, I can make it work for me.

Which is exactly what I’ve been teaching myself to do these past 3 months. But that’s another story for another day.

So whether you’ve got 360º flexibility, or one-push consistency, embrace it. There’s no right or wrong way to get the words out. Water is water.

…

*Note: I no longer sit facing a wall. But that too is another story for another day.

It is done.

Sort of.

At 5 AM on Wed morning, I finished the first draft of my manuscript. (The week before, Andy kept telling me to “Finnish” my book. So that’s the note I left for him at 5:01 AM.) But while finishing the first draft IS a big accomplishment, it’s also just the beginning of a new phase: editing. Such is the nature of writing, that each milestone only leads to the next, and your work is never really complete.

Because of that (and because of my extreme exhaustion) I had a hard time feeling celebratory. Don’t worry! As the day wore on, and the enormity of my 87,000 word achievement sunk in, I did find myself smiling, and my heart dancing, just a little bit. But it wasn’t this big carefree, elated high like I was expecting.

The best way I can think to describe it is this: I put up the walls and the roof. Does that make it a house? Technically. It contains all the necessary elements — kitchen, dining room, bedrooms, bathrooms. But it’s not ready for anyone to come inside yet. I still need to put in the doors and windows. (Not to mention paint and furnish.) You wouldn’t hold an open house for a building with no doors and windows, would you?

What you might do, though, is drink a glass of wine with a good friend to honor the fact that, no matter what happens next, you built something. Not just a vision or a blueprint, not just a foundation or a frame. A real house with rooms and stairs. A place that people could someday live in and love. Yes, it’s got a ways to go, but damn, look at how far it’s come.

So, friends, will you raise a glass with me?

Cheers.

But here’s the thing: I’m close. Close to the end of the first draft. I won’t say how close, and I won’t predict when I’ll actually be finished, but as all those 2012 doomsday-ers say, THE END IS NEAR.

Be ready.

In the end, I couldn’t make this line fit into the post, but I wanted to share it here:

Writing is unlike many professions in many ways. But it is exactly like most professions in this one very important way: You will get better the longer and harder you try.

There is nothing weird or shameful about that.

…

As a society, we tend to give birthday cards, send holiday greetings, and mail gifts or notes when we travel. But what about the rest of the year? The little celebrations, or the unexpected times of difficulty? What about my favorite occasion: no reason at all?

In college, I constantly left random notes for people in my hall. I tried to highlight things they had done that made me smile, or tell something cheerful if I knew they were down. This was doubly true when I became an RA.

This is a bit harder to do in “real life” (i.e., after you’ve graduated). Okay, not harder, but perhaps considered weirder. Fortunately I don’t mind being a little unconventional.

To that end, Michael’s has these dollar bins that I love. There are always stationery sets (8 cards and matching envelopes) in varying designs, and I try to pick up a couple nice-looking, all-purpose ones to have on hand.

Also, a friend recently gave me a box of a hundred or so postcards, each depicting a different old book cover. (They mostly look the same.) I like to match the titles to the reason or person I’m sending them for. “Vile Bodies” as a get well card, “The Odyssey” as congratulations on a new job.

Like I said, I don’t mind being a little weird.

…

Football. I cannot believe how much I’ve come to love this game. Flag, fantasy, and pro. I’ll have to write a post/column on it sometime. For now, I’ll just say that even though the Texans lost by basically giving our opponents 17 out of their 20 points today — grumble grumble — overall it was a good football year for me and my teams. And from now until August, I’ll be running on dreams of an even bigger, brighter next year.

Speaking of patience…

“25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing (Right F—ing Now)” by Chuck Wendig

The rise of self-publishing has seen a comparative surge forward in quantity. As if we’re all rushing forward to squat out as huge a litter of squalling word-babies as our fragile penmonkey uteruses (uteri?) can handle. Stories are like wine; they need time. So take the time. This isn’t a hot dog eating contest. You’re not being judged on how much you write but rather, how well you do it. Sure, there’s a balance — you have to be generative, have to be swimming forward lest you sink like a stone and find remora fish mating inside your rectum. But generation and creativity should not come at the cost of quality. Give your stories and your career the time and patience it needs.

That’s #5 on the list. The others that particularly spoke to me were #7, 14, and 15. (Thanks goes to Ben L.J. Brooks for tweeting this.)

“It Looked Good On Paper” by Boys Don’t Read

It took me more time than most (20+ years) to realize life doesn’t always conduct itself by the rules of the The Hero’s Journey, or confine itself to Syd Field’s three act structure. That these predetermined pillars of climax – Valentine’s Day, the senior prom, the first kiss – aren’t necessarily anchored to anything meaningful, and when they are, they tend to pale against the sparkling ruler of Hollywood…

In my life, I’ve made peace with this. Mostly. But it’s a battle I fight every day in my writing.

Once again Jeff and the BDR crew make it on my list, due to their potent mix of humor, insight, and real-life resonance. I have a feeling you may see them here often.

“When You’re Bad at Something” by Natalie Whipple

I can’t tell you that if you work harder than anyone else you’ll be on top. If that were true, I would be way further ahead than I am. But alas, I’m still up against some people who have honest-to-goodness talent. It’s hard to deal with sometimes. I won’t lie and say I’m totally fine when someone who has put in half the work and time I have gets twice the reward I do. It’s hard to accept — important to accept — but hard.

But on the flip side, there are some comforts in all this sucking at stuff. For one, I do believe with all my heart that anyone can improve in something if they want to. It doesn’t matter what it is — you can go after it and do it well. It might take twice as long. You may never be as good as a prodigy. But you as a human being have the potential to succeed. It is part of all of us.

I’m not sure where I fall on the Talent vs. Hard Work range. They’re not even opposite ends of the same spectrum, are they? Regardless, this post was a great reminder that just because something doesn’t come easily doesn’t mean it will never come.

Patience. Again, it seems to be the key.

In this post I talked about the repetitive strain injury I get in my wrists, and the dictation software (a.k.a. Dragon) that Andy bought me to help relieve/avoid the pain.

A week before Christmas, I attended a work holiday party with Andy. I was nervous for a variety of reasons. (We would be the youngest couple there, people were going to ask about my writing, etc.) But one person managed to put me completely at ease: Andy’s boss’s wife. I’ll call her C.

Only a few years older than us, C made the best first impression of anyone I’ve met in a long, long time. Born and raised in Spain, educated in America, the daughter of a pilot, and an avid reader, she was worldly, warm, and well-spoken. When I told her that I write “books for teens,” she said, “Oh, you mean Young Adult?” I think my girl crush started right then and there. We talked at length about books, culture, and travel, and by the end of the night I pretty much wanted to be C when I grew up.

(This is all related and going somewhere, I promise.)

Part of what I admired in C was her eloquence. She didn’t hurry to speak, she didn’t add unnecessary thoughts, she didn’t stumble over her words. I’m kind of the opposite. I speak before I think, my jokes and anecdotes come out all jumbled, and sometimes I even forget what I’m trying to say in the middle of saying it. Because it’s fueled by enthusiasm, sometimes it can come off as cute. But I’m 26 now and (unfortunately) only getting older. Cute won’t work forever.

Part of what my dad was trying to get me to do — besides just not annoying him — was to arrange my thoughts ahead of time. Figure out how to say what I wanted to say in an interesting and effective manner. That was probably too much to ask of someone who still played with Polly Pockets, but it’s a skill I would very much like to have — or at least develop — now.

Enter the Dragon.

Dictating e-mails, blog posts and comments, etc. isn’t so weird. I just kind of pretend that I’m talking to whoever is on the receiving end, as opposed to my shiny MacBook. But stories are, well, a different story. I don’t naturally think out loud. Or rather, when I do, my thoughts come out rather clunky and rambling. Not exactly the words you want applied to your manuscript.

But maybe this is a good thing. Maybe using my Dragon more will not only prevent my RSI, but also teach me to think before I speak. To be able to edit my words in my head as well as on the page. Maybe I too can seem as worldly, warm, and well-spoken as C.

Or maybe I’ll just look like a crazy person talking to myself. Only time will tell.

This year, I have 2 resolutions in mind that I believe fit the same criteria.

1. Finish my manuscript.

This is self-explanatory, right?

Feb 5 will mark the one-year anniversary of quitting my job to focus on writing full-time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t expected hoped to have an agent and maybe even a book deal by now. But life never goes to plan — and this process is notoriously slow — and I am not a quick writer – so I really should have known better.

But not succeeding yet is not the same as failing. My goals — awesome manuscript, agent, book deal — haven’t changed. They’re just on a different timeline. What exactly that timeline is, I don’t know, and I’m not going to make estimates anymore. First of all, I’m bad at estimating, and second, it’s not in my control anyway.

What is in my control is finishing the manuscript and polishing it to shine. So that’s what I’m going to do. And when I’m done, this book will be so damn shiny you’ll see your reflection in it.

(That’s sort of the point of a story after all, no?)

2. Encourage/stretch my imagination.

This goal is less tangible but just as important, IMO.

I’m generalizing here, but as kids we gave ourselves a lot of freedom. Sure, we couldn’t talk to strangers or cross a street without holding someone’s hand, but in our minds, there were few limits. A talking paperclip? Sure. (That was the heroine of one of my earliest stories.) A veterinarian movie star? Why not. (That’s what I used to want to be.)

But somewhere along the way, “reality” seeped in and turned all those fun, wild dreams into soggy mush that we were embarrassed to hold onto. We started judging our ideas. We said “no” to those bright, twinkling stars before we even let ourselves reach for them. We had to focus on what was possible. We had to be realistic.

I want to undo that.

I want to say “yes.” I want to re-learn that “childish” playfulness and ingenuity. I want to believe in the impossible again.

…

Side story: One of my cherished childhood memories is “cooking.” I used to take out this big blue plastic bowl and mix in whatever I could find. Water. Flour. Salt. Vinegar. Soy sauce. Food coloring. It made me feel so grown-up, working in the kitchen, making something.

But it wasn’t grown-up at all, and the result was a crazy brown sludge that no one in their right mind would eat/drink.

Of course, that’s not what I saw when I looked in the bowl. If you asked me what I had made, I would tell you, honestly, chocolate cake. Or maybe macaroni and cheese. Clam chowder. French toast. That crazy brown sludge could be whatever I wanted it to be.

And that is the whole point.

…

So there you have it. My new year’s resolutions, and a bonus memory to boot. 2011 was not always an easy year, but I’d say it was good, overall. I suppose I can’t ask for much more than that from 2012.

In order of when I read them…

“Watching Death” by Shreve Stockton

I watched a death today.  It was hard to be sad and hard not to be sad – it was a fast death after a long and good life, but that still doesn’t make it easy.

Animals, man. They are… amazing. They grow our hearts.

“Pwned: You’re No Shakespeare, Kid” by Jeff of Boys Don’t Read

Now, having gone through school and numerous critique groups, I’m amazed how little raw talent actually buys you. It’s about energy. Thick skin. An open mind. Caffeine. Those ingredients will take you far. Sure, there are exceptions. Writers who get published the first time they dash out a novel, their very first draft. But let’s face it, most of those people either have parents in publishing or are total assholes (geniuses). The rest of us? We work. We suffer. We live and develop as people and professionals. As we develop, we learn which of our stories are most worth telling, and we learn how to tell them.

Everything about this post reminded me of me. And as I said in the comments, after 20 or so years of coasting on whatever amount of smarts and talent I was born with, it’s been hard to retrain myself.

“Teaching and Purpose” by Jon Chopan

I did not become a writer or a teacher of writing because it seemed easy, or because it was something I happened upon. Instead, I did not want to be in cahoots with the nightmare. Creativity, it seems to me, is the most powerful tool we have as human beings. It is what makes us capable of war, of hate, of truly despicable forms of violence. But, too, it is what makes us capable of compassion, of love, of empathy. And I believe that by fostering the creativity born of writing, born in well told stories and in boldly written poems, that we are contributing to a kind of creative power that is much needed.

Enough said.