Author: abby mumford

feelings

fountain of inspiration?

abby mumford

i’ve reached a point where i think it’s time to address a long running fear of mine. i think we’re ready for that, oh dear blog reader. so, this fear of mine? it’s a fear of no new inspiration on what to write next.

my current WIP has a character that deals with things i understand explicitly. those things might be irrational, but she feels them and i feel them and as a result, writing this was a bit like therapy. the thought of starting a new piece with new characters completely unrelated to me is startling and confusing. i feel like i’ve been plopped down in a foreign country and i’m the only one who speaks English.

it seems like people are always talking about this dream they had that triggered that massive selling book, or even a mildly selling book. i have a lot of dreams, but none of them are publishing worthy. i wonder if it’s because i dream in the first person. i dream about situations i am in. and yet, so far, everything i’ve written has been in the third person. perhaps. just perhaps, i’ve been looking at my dreams from the wrong angle.

all i know is that i had a dream, a horrifying dream, last night that involved lava and cages and me and children i was responsible for and no way out. is this the sign of the apocalypse? or that i’ve spent too much time following Eyjafjallajokul on Twitter? or could this be a scene from my next novel? or could this be, plain and simple, just a dream?

dream or not. first person or not. you see, i have a hard time getting to know my characters. it seems unfair to pluck one character trait out of my imagination and force it onto someone. yet, that’s kind of what (i feel like) i have to do because (so far) i’ve never been one who “has the characters speak to me”. it’s never like i’m “channeling the story that the character had to tell”. i have to think and process and plot every sentence that i write, whether it’s dialogue, narrative, or something in between.

maybe it’s a sign i need more work as a writer. maybe it’s a sign i’m a one and done-r. maybe it’s a sign my fountain of inspiration is drying up. or, it might be that my map leading me to the next well is outdated and the path has grown over with weeds. since i’m dehydrated and without a weed wacker, it makes sense i’d feel a bit timid.

(ok, terrified.)

how come words can flow out of one person, while numbers can inspire another? how come i seem to be nowhere on that bell curve, that graph, that chart? how can i claw my way there? better yet, how can i find a new muse?

feelings

read me

abby mumford

in a fit of procrastination, i turn to the interwebs. and boy, oh boy did it respond. i’ve had no less than 3 “holy cow you MUST read this NOW” moments. between me, myself, my blog, and twitter.

this post articulates a fear i refused to acknowledge because as soon as i would hear it whispering, i’d shhhh it right quick. because it was too soon. because it was too silly. a fear, any fear doesn’t have to be rational, but it should be acknowledged and discussed because otherwise how would you move past it? fear as motivation. that doesn’t sound scary, does it?

this post sounds familiar. except add 4 years. subtract one PhD program. minus the cooking abilities. and remove the scientific brain.

(michael buble’s “i just haven’t met you yet” came on pandora just now. yes, yes, i know. patience is a virtue. on many levels.)

this post hit me over the head, knocked me down, and then kicked me. in a good way. i am, by nature, a private person. it’s deceiving because i will truthfully and completely answer any question asked of me, but when answering, i’m in control of what i say. and usually what i leave out is what i’m writing about. i keep it close because i’m a perfectionist and i don’t want anyone reading it until it’s perfect. and added to that,  i am superstitious (ish) so i won’t talk it until it’s ready to be read. vicious cycle, no?

i have made a few concessions, but that’s only been to people within the industry because they “know”. they “understand”. hannah makes the point that it’s the people who aren’t in the know that are most valuable because they will champion YOU instead of each contract point or print run quantity or release date or how fast you signed with an agent or if your book went to auction. which is true. oh so true. thanks for walloping me with that truth.

general

excerpt mania

abby mumford

“Babel Fish is a free language translation software. It’s also the reason why REAL translators will never lose their jobs.” So says Stephanie Perkins as she ran her an excerpt of her manuscript through the translator before posting it on her site. Hilarity ensues.

I decided to do the same. No, there aren’t legions of fans clamoring for a copy of my book.  There aren’t even editors or agents who are doing that (yet, I hope). But I am finalizing and polishing and getting excited about where my WIP is, so I wanted to share it. Although, I rarely talk about my book in anything other than the most vague terms, so what’s a girl to do that wants to thank her readers and share a bit of her writing at the same time? Run it through Babel Fish.

Without further ado, here is a snippet as translated from English to Portuguese and back again.

The heart of Riley jumps a stroke or four. The eyes expand and its drops of the mouth. It has a girl that she seats two feet far from it approximately; more it is spread well of what sitting down. Its members are spread wide with each foot and hand indic, making its look as one starfish.

Riley swallows an shout and the blinks ràpida to certify itself of are waked up and that this is real.

Its heart is compensating now for the time where it lost a moment has – it is beating so fast, it knows certainly that it is waked up and this is real. Of “where you lode? Who you are”

The blond hair of the girl is torsional and tangling as its main turns, looking at ambo same it and its arredors. Its blue eyes are taking above by the half of its face, but of the Riley certain if that one it is not its normal appearance or if that one is what its face makes on behalf of shock and of the surprise. It has something strange on the way that the girl looks at, but Riley cannot completely appear it for is. It decides that it must be the shock of a so uncommon arrival that is making its doubt its eyesight of 20/20.

“Who you are” Riley opens and closes its mouth to certify itself that it is working. “Where fêz you come of” It tries to say and high each word clearly, but its fear is not accurately conducive to the appropriate exposition.

The girl ignores Riley and continues to study itself.

The adrenalin of Riley delays a bit. It controls a deep breath. Another time makes same the two questions. E another time. Riley is starting to suspect that hallucinating, but on the other hand the girl slowly murmurs some words on clouds, cars, would mercearia and it. Crab walked some stages stops backwards, it carries through that começ cannot dsi far same and as soon as stop to turn yield, and twists its arm to look at its shoulder. It pricks its foot, it raises its knee, and wiggles its foot. That começ breathes more noisily and more quickly as alcanga until the sensation its hair, touches in its face, and pulls it in its ear. To look at perplexed more than and what a bit rightened, it turns for Riley. “I am I glue of Angela. I think that I am inoperative.”

Side falls on the o.

feelings

primal urges

abby mumford

before, when bored, i’d get the URGE to read a book. or email a friend. or read some blogs. or eat some potato chips. or ice cream. or watch TV. or re-read a book. or talk on the phone. or go for a run.

but these past few weeks, when bored, i’ve felt the URGE to WRITE. blog posts. and the WIP. by hand. by typing. and by sheer force of will. this is full of awesome sauce because it means i’m inching closer to a particular life dream.

i’ll take those inches or centimeters any way i can. because after all, it’s not the size of the equipment, but rather, how you use it.

general

manic monday indeed

abby mumford

i’ve had many adventures on my bike. i had another one yesterday. the day shone bright, clear, and cool. i was running a little late, so i decided to bike to work. i slung on my backpack, clicked my helmet into place and walked down a flight of stairs to my waiting bike. i picked up my bike with a morning energy that was somehow surging through my veins. (this is not normal.) i walked down 5 steps.

i fell down the rest.

yes, i was holding my bike. yes, my elbows were drumming down every step. yes, my butt was colliding hard with every step as well. the only reason i stopped falling was that there were no more steps.

self check: i’m not seriously damaged (well, physically anyways.) just bruises and scrapes. the shock wore off. my bike appeared to be in tact, except the chain had slipped off the gear. i spent the next 15 minutes trying to put it back on but the only successful thing i did was get grease all over my hands. i know putting the chain on is supposed to be easy, but easy and i don’t often walk hand in hand. i gave up and trudged back up the stairs. i went to put my backpack on the chair but it fell to the ground due to a broken strap. what IS IT with today?

i washed the majority of the grease off my hands, but failed in fixing the strap to my backpack with safety pins. i switched bags and went for one more try with the bike chain because well, i was late in the first place which is why i decided to ride my bike and now i’m really late, so the same reason still applies. SUCCESS. bike chain on. i think. i hope.

i got to work 6 minutes late. (ok, fine, so my “i’m running late” is different than the average person’s). i realized that despite all my bumps and bruises or maybe because of them, i’ve pushed past the stereotype of a manic monday. and it has become a normal work day. you know, the one where i’m in charge of the entire department because my boss and my only direct coworker are out on vacation.

what stereotype will you break through today?