I want to run a 3 hour and 28 minute marathon while chain smoking...
Thoughts on art, death, writing a perfect first draft and other and impossible feats
I want to run a 3.5 hour marathon while chain smoking.
I want to write 2,000 clean words a day then go read at a baseball game.
Neither of those statements are true.
I don’t smoke and I hate baseball, but I want the impossible and this feels like two people that have achieved that. I don’t know if it’s true that Stephen King writes 2000 clean words in a couple hours then goes about his day. It’s something I heard and my brain latched onto as “the dream.” It’s absolutely true about Uncle Chen. There’s something undeniably poetic about a 50-year-old-man chain smoking and running under an eight-minute mile for an entire marathon.
I want to write a powerful, moving book on the first try. That’s right. That’s the actual impossible feat I’m interested in. No revisions for me. A perfect book, right out of the gate. And lately I’ve been asking myself why? Why do I want that?
For many, many years I made visual art. All sorts of different things, but the last series I completed was embroidered bones on photographs of photographs. It takes a LONG time to complete one piece from start to finish. I won’t walk you through the whole process, but know that there are many steps involved, and I loved every-single-meticulous-one. Each hunt for source material, each stab of the needle through the photo, even the gloves I wore so I wouldn’t get fingerprints on the work—all of it delighted me.
With revising it feels different, because with writing I feel impatient in a way I didn’t making art. There is a white hot panic that sets in. A tiny Emily Dickinson voice whispering in my ear, “Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me…”
What if I die before publishing a book? And why is that thought so terrifying?
I honestly don’t know. But I’m going to keep working, slow down, and try to find the joy in rewriting—in revising. Try to quell the panic that rises from time to time. I’ve found a calm in the work this week, we’ll see if I keep it.
These quotes have been making me feel better about the process.
"Books aren't written--they're rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn't quite done it."
Michael Crichton
"There is a difference between a book of two hundred pages from the very beginning, and a book of two hundred pages which is the result of an original eight hundred pages. The six hundred are there. Only you don't see them."
Elie Wiesel
"What I had to face, the very bitter lesson that everyone who wants to write has got to learn, was that a thing may in itself be the finest piece of writing one has ever done, and yet have absolutely no place in the manuscript one hopes to publish."
Thomas Wolfe
"By the time I am nearing the end of a story, the first part will have been reread and altered and corrected at least one hundred and fifty times. I am suspicious of both facility and speed. Good writing is essentially rewriting."
Roald Dahl
"It is no sign of weakness or defeat that your manuscript ends up in need of major surgery. This is common in all writing and among the best of writers."
E.B. White
"The best way out is always through."
Robert Frost
What have I been watching:
Twisters. It was amazing!!! Slow burn romance at its finest, and with tornadoes! So fun.
What I have been reading:
I’ve had the privilege of doing a lot of beta reading recently, including Robin Blackburn’s latest. It was so immersive; I felt like I was at Lake George which was lovely.
I’ve also been reading The Ex Vows by Jessica Joyce which I just started but so far it’s great.
What I’ve been listening to:
Olivia Rodrigo Radio on Spotify.
Continuation of the first ten pages chronicles:
Here is the new, improved first ten pages in my Scottish Rom Com, that honestly work a lot better with the end of the book. Let me know what you think!
Chapter One
Skye
The bells jingle on the bookshop door and it sounds like home. Better than home, because there isn’t any work to be done. No leaks to be patch. No chickens to feed. I can pick a book at random and live any life, not the one where I’m a grown woman still living with my father.
Endless shelves of stories to escape into.
Okay, not really endless, as the bookstore in Foyers is actually quite small, all the stock crammed into what used to be a living and dining room of a white stone cottage. I browse the shelves filled to bursting with books, walking past the small sitting area in the middle of the room with a massive red shaggy papasan chair. The shop is empty—completely empty. Where is Gabby?
“Gabs?”
“Is that you Skye?”
“Yes. Is everything okay?” I suddenly feel like I walked into one of the mysteries I write. Is there a body lurking around the shelf?
“Just making tea, dear! Want any?” she calls from the back.
“No, thanks.”
I show myself to the crime fiction section and run my finger along the black and grey spines with the occasional pop of blood red, trying to decide which one to lose myself in. I reach up to the top, where the As are shelved, and touch the spot where my novel will go someday, if I ever get to publish one.
The bell to the door jingles. My friend Kate runs in, her black hair billowing behind her along with some stray leaves and a cool fall wind.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
“That’s okay.” We hug and she gives me a kiss on the cheek, leaving a gooey mark of red lipstick, her signature look since we were sixteen.
“Don’t you want to get a bite to eat?” It’s Kate’s lunch and she only has thirty minutes.
She shakes her head. “Books are more important.”
I laugh, but she’s absolutely right. As we browse, Gabs comes out of the back holding a steaming cup and fills the small space with a floral scent.
After a while, Kate finds me in the reference section and hands me a pink book. I glance down at the bright cover: Two people lean together, about to kiss, flowers surrounding them. It’s cheerful, and not something I would ever read. “What’s this?”
“I finished it last week. It’s delightful. You have to try it.”
I shake my head, handing it back to her. “I’ll stick to murder.”
Kate smiles but places the book on top of my stack. “You need to broaden your horizons. If you don’t love it…” She looks around, her green eyes searching for inspiration. “I’ll go out with Tommy.”
Tommy has been asking Kate out for the better part of five years. Not that I’m an authority on romantic matters, but even I can see they would be perfect together. If Kate would go on a date with him. She has her heart set on a grand sweep-you-off-your-feet-and-out-of-Scotland-romance. Not a local boy. Or at least that was her dream. I think she doesn’t want to let herself be happy.
“Deal,” I say.
We take our books to the register and I hand over my card. Gabby runs it and shakes her head. My cheeks burn, as my stomach twists. I should’ve just asked her to hold them, but I thought I had enough to cover it. Kate swoops in, her ed nails flashing as she hands over her card. “It’s on me.”
“Kate, you don’t have to.”
“It’s not a problem.”
Gabby swipes Kate’s card. “See you hens next week at the meeting. I read your latest pages and I have thoughts.”
I smile. “Can’t wait to hear them.”
As we walk out the door, the cool September air feels amazing on my still flushed cheeks.
“I’ll pay you back. I get paid Friday.”
Kate waves me away. “No worries. Hey you’ll be swimming in it once the Americans pay up!”
My brain runs back what she said, the words all make sense but the meaning escapes me. “Americans?”
Kate’s already pale skin goes an unnatural shade of white. “Um, maybe you should talk to your dad. Oh look at that,” she glances at her wrist that has absolutely no watch on it, “I’m going to be late. Gotta run! Call me later.”
I look at my actual watch. Shit. I’m going to be late. Hopping on my bike I ride back to the castle as fast as my legs will pedal.
#
My bike skids on the gravel as I come to a stop, just barely making it before the tour group arrives. Thanks to the light rain on my way back, I’m soaking wet. No time to change, I quickly throw my bike in the shed and head for the entrance of our castle. Plastering a smile on my face as the bus pulls up the drive, I scrunch my curls trying to make the wet look somewhat intentional.
This castle can be a lonely place. Growing up as an only child I often imagined people filling the halls, but they were never quite so nosy. In the fantasy, they just hung on my every word, enjoyed my company, more interested in me than these old stone walls. Seven people and one child get off the bus. I lead the tour upstairs first, and ramble my usual spiel. My mind is elsewhere though—what did Kate mean by film crew?
A little tug on my sweater stops me, and the group stops too. This whole tour thing was Dad’s idea. He’s chuck full of them lately. Think of them as characters for your writing. New faces, fresh perspectives, pet.
The little girl with blonde ringlets opens her mouth to say something but quickly closes it hiding behind her mother’s skirt.
Her mother with matching blonde hair whispers, “She thinks you’re Merida from Brave.”
The girl pokes her head out, her eyes shining, and stomps her foot. “She is Merida, mom. Look at her hair! And this castle.” She waves her small arms around the hall, her heart-shaped face so earnest I swallow my laugh.
Her mother says, “Sorry, she’s three.”
“Three and a half,” the girl insists.
“Honey, she told us her name...” she falters, clearly searching her memory. I don’t blame her: we met twenty minutes ago and in another forty we’ll never see each other again. They’ll go off about their lives and I’ll be here. Like always. Fresh perspectives, indeed.
“Skye,” I say. “Not a princess, not magical. Just plain old ordinary Skye Ainsle.”
The mother picks up the now pouting little girl. Should I have let her believe I was Merida? No. Leading strangers around my home is one thing, pretending to be a Disney princess is something else entirely. We’re not that desperate—yet.
An older guest with white hair and pearls asks, “Is your family Scottish royalty?”
I shake my head, wrapping my sweater closer around my torso trying to keep out the chill seeping through the cracks in the roof.
“How do you live in a castle then?”
Leading the group through the hall, not wanting this tour to take any longer than it needs to, I answer, “It depends on who you ask. The story I believe is that my,” I tick these off on my fingers to get the number right, “great-great-great-great grandfather Maxwell Ainsle won the castle from the Mortimers in a card game and Loch Ness Castle has been in the family ever since.”
Not stopping as I walk past the second story library I use as my writing room—some spaces are too sacred for the tour—I continue.
“The joke was on great-great-great-great grandad, though. The castle was in such disrepair it was hardly livable. It stayed that way for generations. My grandmother did a ton of the renovations and moved her family in. Then my mother continued the work after she married my father.” I run my hand along the wall, the stone rough under my fingertips remembering my mother with a fork in her hand chipping away at the walls. “This hallway used to be covered in cement. She renovated it to reveal the original stone.”
We head to the staircase and one of the guests points to the right. “What’s down that hall?”
“It’s just our bedrooms. We still live here.”
The man with greasy hair and sensible sneakers thrusts his shoulders back. “But this is a tour. We should get to see.”
Forcing a smile on my face, I say, “There’s plenty more to see, don’t worry.”
He might make for a good villain in my book.
We head down the stairs to the kitchen and then through the main dining room, which is always an impressive stop with the hunting trophies on the wall and an enormous chandelier made from elk antlers, but I shuffle them through. On to the library on the main floor, which was my mom’s favorite room.
I open the heavy wooden door to the warm smell of fire in the hearth and slightly dusty books.
The guests walk around checking out the carved plaster ceiling, the shelves of heavy leather bound books, and that’s when I notice the group is smaller than it was a moment ago. The man that asked me about the rooms upstairs is missing. My pulse pounds like a war drum on the side of my throat and my cheeks flame. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Running up the stairs, I head straight for the hall to the right. I peek through every open doorway with no luck. As I get closer, I see the door at the end of the hall is open. My bedroom door. I’m almost positive I closed it. I take a deep breath. I will not yell at the paying guest. I will not yell at the paying guest. Think of the online reviews. We need this income. I will simply ask him to rejoin the group.
Inside my room, standing next to my dresser is the greasy haired man, his grubby hands holding my green satin bra. I scoff, hardly comprehending what I’m seeing. It’s unbelievable.
The man drops the bra. “It was on the floor and I nearly tripped. I could’ve hit my head. I was just putting it away.”
All my well intentioned plans fly out the window. “Get out!”
I stand aside and the man storms past me. “We are paying a pretty penny for this; we should get the whole tour.”
“The whole tour does not include my pants drawer, sir!”
He walks down the stairs then, thankfully, out the front entrance.
I run my hands over my face, my fingers cool against my flushed cheeks. I’ll show the rest of the group the grounds and then conclude the tour. We’ll skip the ballroom—I haven’t fixed the broken tiles in the corner anyway.
The first thing I notice as I enter the library is one of the older guests has helped himself to a whiskey. I sigh. It could be worse. Then I see that it is, in fact, much worse, the blonde woman is thumbing through an ancient edition of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, licking her finger each time she turns a page.
I’m about to take it from her hands when a crack stops me in my tracks. A man is holding a record sleeve, the record itself shattered into hundreds of pieces at his feet. My face is numb as I take the sleeve from his hands, turning it around to see which album it is. Please don’t let it be hers. Please.
It’s the Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers. Relief washes over me. One of my favorites, but mercifully not one of mom’s.
“That concludes our tour.”
There are a few groans and no movement to leave.
“Thank you so much for coming.” Again, not one person moves. The older gentleman still sips on our whiskey.
“Everyone needs to leave. Now!”
The group shuffles out the door with mutters of “money back” and “we should’ve gone to Urquhart Castle.” Once I am alone again, I pour myself a large glass of whiskey and it hits me what I’ve done. I can practically read the Yelp reviews now. We’re going to need a new plan.
I take my whiskey out to the stable. “Dad!”
Looking into each stall, I see he’s not there. I search the whole grounds, even heading all the way out to our Highland cows that like to hang out by the road, Bessie and Nessie, their shaggy hair blowing in wind. Petting Bessie behind her ears, her orange coat soft between my fingers and soothing my frayed edges, I give up and text him.
Dad, where are you?
He replies with a link to a You Heard First article. What the hell is going on? I didn’t even know Dad knew about YHF—he’s not really a film buff, or interested in celebrity gossip, that I know of.
Miles Casey Headed for Scotland
Miles Casey’s career isn’t over yet. Hollywood heart throb and most recently the star of the box office flop Clean Up Hitter, featuring him as a washed up pitcher and an animated talking baseball was recently spotted at Paris International Airport waiting on a flight to Scotland—in a kilt no less.
Sources close to Casey tell YHF he’s been preparing for the leading role in the latest Natalie Rodriguez film at his L.A. bungalow. The role as a Scottish recluse is a departure from his recent family friendly and arguably terrible films to a film with what our source called, “substance.” He’s been hitting the gym to—
I stop reading.
Dad, what’s with the article? Where are you?
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.
Business meeting running late. Going to stay in Edinburgh 2nite. Explain in the morning. Love you. Dad
Not only is that not an answer, but he insists on signing his texts.
“If you had a phone, I bet you would know texting doesn’t require a formal signature.” Bessie grunts like she’s agreeing with me or she’s hoping for snacks. Throwing the rest of the whiskey down my throat, I head back inside.
There's a quote by Ira Glass that I've been thinking about a lot:
“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”
― Ira Glass