Well, it's been tough to start typing, both here and on my fiction writing project. The fiction writing project (okay, let's just start calling it a book, but not The Book, and most definitely not My Stupid BookTM). Anyway, as it currently stands, it's off in my writing teacher's hands for a complete read-through.

I had to send her the revised chapters in the same week as my report card comments were due because, oh my god, poor planning.

Anyway, it's been hard to type anything because:

1. I'm obsessed by the news of our unhinged president. It's much worse than I imagined, as he's actually driven by only narcissism and revenge. I can't stop reading the papers. It seems like the only thing TO do.  I mean, besides march and do my weekly resistance items. And, I guess, pray.

2. The report card comment cycle. After they go out, I inevitably contact and am contacted by families who want to follow up. That's good and normal.

3. I got sick. There's a respiratory pestilence floating around, and despite my fervent protests, I contracted it. I had to stay home from school on Wednesday, which is a pain and which I hate, and now my face has a massive psoriasis outbreak. Because did you know that respiratory infection is a well-documented psoriasis trigger? I mean, really. Teaching with a facial rash is one of my least favorite states in which to teach. I'd rather teach with a stain on my shirt or even my fly down than with red blotches all over my face. I would, however, choose the facial rash over a third pregnancy. Pregnancy is a terrible state in which to teach. Anyway, the only thing to do is acknowledge that I have a facial rash and watch the students study it openly in response to this confirmation.

Get Over It in 3 Acts

It's Still Not Friday (but today it actually is)

• Quindlen doesn't care for the descriptor, "women's fiction." Of course, just yesterday I researched the genre for my own fiction writing project, and it's probably "women's fiction." This is a term you use to sell your book to an agent or editor, but it all - literary fiction, genre fiction, upmarket fiction, book club fiction - gets shelved together in the same section of the bookstore. Do you know why Quindlen hates the "women's" distinction? I bet you can guess. It's because it relegates writing by women, with a primary audience of women to a lesser status. As she puts it, it reveals a "lack of respect for women's lives." And, all of it is really "women's fiction" because women purchase about 80% of hardcover fiction sold.
• After Quindlen finishes a manuscript, she reads the entire thing aloud to herself. Connection! I also do this, but with every blog post and every important email. She says it takes a week. And when, she's finished reading it, she proclaims out loud, "This is good work." She does that because the concept of "audience" is slippery. It's her own voice that matters.
• Reading, according to Quindlen, is a democratic act. We practice empathy, we gain knowledge and perception of nuance. There's no "I'm too busy to read." Reading is always worth the time. It's how we stay in the light as a people and as a society.

Every feminist has a "slacks" story.

Whispering feminism to high school boys.

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  I haven't been posting it for awhile because of some factors.  These factors stalled my writing and filled me with self-doubt.  But then, a few circumstances arose that put me back in business.  One of these was that I heard an interview with Lauren Groff, acclaimed author of Arcadia and Fates and Furies.  She shared in the interview that she always works on more than one project at once.  If one project's not going well, she picks up the other.  That seemed smart to me. So, one time during Creative Writing Club at the urging of the sixth graders, I started a new project.  Here's a little bit of it.  Maybe you'll like it, maybe you won't. But here it is:

Isobel’s eyelids drooped ominously in the after-school faculty meeting.  A heavy fatigue had dogged her for most of her teaching day, sucking her prep period down a dark hole of scouring the Spanx website for an external solution to the five pounds she'd gained since school started again.

Now, several hours later, her department chair expounded on the importance of using language to foster a democratic learning community. “For example,” Mary continued, a full twenty minutes into her monologue, “an effective teaching strategy is to begin with an open question.”  Isobel pinched her left thigh in an attempt to perk up.  Next to her, Jamie, a twenty-five-year old in the midst of her first year of teaching, drew a sixth row of hearts in her college-ruled spiral notebook. Isobel gave her a sidelong smile, and Jamie rolled her eyes.

I'm so happy because I already have a plot idea for this gal.  Unlike in my Alice project, I know what the inciting incident and major conflict are.  That's gotta make things easier, right? We'll see.

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  I thought about not posting anything this week.  A lot of the speed writing from my April push (I did well - doubled the length of the project - even though I didn't come close to the goal of writing 500 words per day), needs a serious once over before posting here.  But, that's not the spirit of #NovelSnip.  #NovelSnip is about process, not product.  It's about progress, not perfection.  So, here's a little scene where Norah chats with Peter, who will become a long-term boyfriend, at the music festival Ellen convinces her to attend:

An hour later, the girls of 3MM had furtively passed around a hastily-rolled joint.  When it was her turn, Norah took it from Ellen, trying to appear nonchalant.  She had, after all, smoked several cigarettes with Tom, her senior year boyfriend, sitting on various parking lot curbs in the dark after the Tigers’ football and basketball games.  How different could it be?

The smoke burned her throat.  She held it in and tried not to cough.  Ellen giggled.  “Looking good, kiddo,” she said.

After she’d passed the joint to Julie, she lay back on the grass and reached her hand out for Ellen’s, squeezing it.  “You were right,” she said.  “This is fun.”  She closed her eyes and stretched her arms on either side.  When she opened them, Peter from the track was standing over her, his feet directly behind her head.  It took Norah a moment to orient herself to his upside-down face.  

He smiled at her.  “Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” she said, her voice low and slightly thick.

“This is my friend, Jim.”  Norah rolled her eyes toward a second upside-down face.  

“Hello,” she repeated.  

“Join us,” Ellen suddenly called.  Norah pushed herself to sitting.  She tousled the back of her hair and made space between herself and Ellen for the boys.

“Here,” she said, patting the ground between them.  “You can sit right here.”  Peter sat down close enough that his left hip brushed against Norah’s when he gestured toward the band, his arm sometimes bumping hers.  Norah felt a blush stirring in her chest and traveling up her neck.

So, that's a little bit!  Keeping things going.  Trying my best.

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  This week, I tried something sort of different.  I made a list of the characteristics I needed to introduce in Norah, the birthmother character, as a young woman.  Now, I'm writing scenes that might convey those.  See?  It's kind of like Backward Design for teaching.  I'm not sure how it's going, but it's going.  500+ words per day, per my solemn vow.

She glanced at the clock on the dash.  Ten o’clock.  Forty five minutes past when she should have been home at the end of the game, as promised.  She snaked the car through the neighborhood rehearsing potential lines.  The girls from the Honor Society had asked her back to one of their houses.  She’d run into her English teacher, who wanted to chat about her latest paper.  She’d fallen down on the bleachers and the athletic trainer insisted on examining her ankle.  Norah swallowed hard as she eased the wagon into the garage.  As she stood at the back door she closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders down her back. Norah turned the handle and eased the door open, stepping silently over the threshold.

“Norah.”  Her mother’s acidic voice caught her as she closed the door behind her.  Norah envisioned her mother’s set jaw and steely eyes before she looked up.  Sure enough, Susan’s gaze was cutting, traveling the length of Norah’s body.

“Hi, Mom,” Norah said, bending to untie her sneakers.

“What have you been doing?”  Norah could hear the sneer in the question, the emphasis on the “you.”

“Nothing,” Norah said, trying to keep her voice light.  “We won the game,” she breathed quickly, lingering over her second shoe.  “Um. I ended up hanging out with some of the Honor Society girls afterwards.”  Reluctantly, she straightened her legs and stood still on the doormat.

“Is that right?” Susan hadn’t moved from her position at the kitchen table, palms lying flat, flanking a glass of ice water.

“Um hmm,” Norah said.  She scanned a path through the kitchen, an escape route.  Go, she told herself, willing her legs forward in long, purposeful strides. As she passed Susan, the older woman twisted suddenly in her seat and grabbed her daughter’s arm nails penetrating the flesh above Norah's wrist.  Norah took a sharp breath in and spun toward her mother, open-mouthed.

“Be careful,” Susan said, squinting at her. Norah felt heat rising in her cheeks and acid at the back of her throat.  “People,” Susan said slowly, scanning the length of Norah’s torso again,  “might start thinking you’re a slut.”  The hard "t" in slut echoed behind Norah's eyes. She closed her mouth without saying anything, opened it again, her breath wavering, and finally set her lips in a line.  After a few beats, she yanked her arm away. Susan brought own hand back to it’s resting place on the table.  The edges of her mouth quivered a bit, and she breathed slowly through her nose, listening as Norah ran up the carpeted steps.

So, that's it.  What do you think?  Do you like Norah?  I do.  I'm going to keep going with her arc this week.  Skipping with her through time, but in chronological order.  We'll see how it's going.  This is a fun and challenging project, and I like doing it with all the writers online.  Highly recommend.

In order to get through the back to school crush, I've been putting tasks aside until certain dates.

Like, I shelved my fiction writing project on August 2nd - the last day of my summer online writing course. I decided I wouldn't open it up again until September 15th.

Sure enough, I clicked on the Google doc yesterday.

I didn't anything to it while it was open, and to be honest, I felt a little wave of panic as I scanned the paragraphs about Isobel at the English Department meeting. Luckily, I have a path forward. All I really have to do is consider looking at the words.

Next week, I start class again and my teacher will tell me just what to do.

Another task I've shelved is exercising. I just can't. I can only walk the dog and teach. By October 1st, I'll be ready. That's the drop date, and I might start doing barre class, or at the very least, the 7-minute workout.

When will I start getting the Weekly(ish) out Weekly(ish)? I think soon. There will probably be one this weekend. It'll probably be enjoyable to read, or at least not riddled with grammatical errors.

Yesterday a kid in my 7th grade class asked me how he knew he could trust me on questions of grammar, usage, and mechanics.

Kid, this isn't my first rodeo. I've been thinking about subject-verb agreement for 20+ years.

Grammar Camp

Project Land vs Grammar Instruction

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project. This week I had an idea of how I might proceed plot-wise, so I started writing scenes that humanize Frank a bit.  Frank isn't an all-bad guy, but rather, a mostly terrible parent and very poor communicator.  I also wrote a scene with Alice all grown up.  I'm writing a bit faster, so I feel like it might be less polished.  But oh well because #NovelSnip isn't about perfection; it's about process.

Frank sighed as he slammed the door of the BMW and drove out of the firm’s parking lot.  On Thursdays, he left early so Evelyn could teach her night class, and without fail, this proved a terrible inconvenience. 

Just before he had moved to stand up, David Keely, the managing partner had stopped into Frank’s office to strategize a new case.  Sweat had pricked Frank’s brow as David droned for several minutes. Frank furtively eyed the digital clock on his bookshelf, which stood next to the photo of Alice in a pink onesie. Finally, Frank had to admit that he was “just leaving” to relieve the nanny, and made a show of piling several thick manila files into his briefcase.

“We’ll do this tomorrow,” David said, gruffly, while Frank kept his head down.

“Yes,” he said, frowning, “I’ll be ready.”

Now, driving home to the classical music station, he felt irritated, his stomach slightly upset. Frank grabbed a cylinder of Rolaids from the ash tray, broke two off with his thumb nail, and popped them into his mouth.  He brushed the chalky bits from his lip and sped down the freeway.

You can stop here for #NovelSnip or click through for the whole scene.  It's one of those weeks!

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  This week Alice, our main character, is visiting Frank, her dad, and Dot, her grandmother in Florida.  Alice is 15, and she'd rather be at home with Evelyn, her mom, and Ethan, her brother:

As she worked her Speedo over her hips, Alice tried to clear the heaviness in her chest with deep breaths.  It didn’t work.  She stepped into the hallway where Frank was waiting, his jaw set and, Alice noted, slightly menacing. His undershirt stretched over his round belly and hovered a fraction of an inch above the the elastic band of his swim trunks.

“Ready,” Alice said, and Frank nodded, eyeing the baggy soccer shorts she’d pulled on over her suit.  Alice tossed her towel over her shoulder and followed Frank out of the apartment.  Heaviness dripped from her forehead into her cheeks. The pool was dark and vacant, and Alice quickly shed her shorts and dropped her legs into the water, shrugging her shoulders to her ears as she waded to waist, then chest depth.

After a few laps, she grabbed the side in the deep end and floated her legs behind her, kicking slowly.  Frank glided up beside her, inches from her left shoulder. She blanched at his proximity.

“Aren’t you having a good time?” Frank asked, a bit of sarcasm hanging behind the query.

“Yeah,” Alice said, eyes trained on the gutter, watching the water bubble down.

“It doesn’t seem like it,” Frank said.  She could feel his breath on her cheek.

“I’m really busy with finals, Dad,” Alice said.  “I guess it wasn’t a very good time to come here.”  They had made plans for Alice to be deposited at the FAU library the next day - she hoped all day - to finish the research and writing of her paper on Macbeth.

Frank grunted.  Alice kept her legs going in a flutter kick, kept starting at the concrete lip that separated the pool from the drain.

And that's #NovelSnip this week.  I need to write some more pages.  Time's been slim this week, and I've been writing in 10-minute segments.  That's not really long enough to make significant progress, I've found.  But, I'm doing my best.

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  Here's another #snip of the new project, which I'm calling School Story. Isobel has survived her asinine department meeting, praise The Lord.

Thirty minutes later, Isobel hunched over the steering wheel of her Sienna, headed home, where Mark would have blessedly prepared dinner, and Callie and Riley were likely ensconced on the couch, engrossed in an infernal Disney Channel offering.

“I know, Mom,” Callie would look over her shoulder lazily when a ridiculous caricature appeared on screen.  “It’s culturally insensitive.”

The drive was thirty minutes, far enough from the high school to avoid too many awkward grocery-store run-ins with the parents, whom she would recognize as familiar, but with no idea to which student they belonged.  Inevitably when these encounters occurred, the well-dressed mother would launch into a thinly-veiled critique of Isobel’s methods or grading, while Isobel, make-up free and sweatpants sagging from her hips, furtively stuffed a box of Lucky Charms into her cart that was otherwise filled with leafy greens and coconut water.

That's it!  I woke up early and wrote some more, and now there are six single-spaced pages.  Turns out, I have a lot of fodder when it comes to ridiculous school-based scenarios.  None from my current post, mind you.  But my previous job was just screaming to be fictionalized.

#NovelSnip is a little snippet of my fiction writing project.  There are more characters in my story than Alice and Frank, but I keep writing about them.  I write about them in the most ridiculously small chunks of time - like, two minutes before waking the kids up to go to school.  I'm sort of imagining these Alice-Frank vignettes as flashbacks, but I'm not sure.  Also, there will be lighter moments in these character's lives, but I haven't written them yet.  Also, I don't know who the main character is.  It might be Frank?

Anyway, here's #NovelSnip:

Alice drove slowly home from Faith Formation.  She taught the seventh and eighth graders, a surly group of mostly boys who remained obstinately disinterested in disciples and stewardship.  She knew Frank would be waiting for her when she got home.

“But it’s so weird!” Alice had protested when Evelyn announced her plan to get a room at the Marriott Courtyard while Frank visited for the Father-Daughter dance at school and Alice’s state championship cross country meet.

“Maybe,” Evelyn conceded, nodding at her daughter, “but it’s convenient.”  For her part, Evelyn could think of worse things than lying in bed, alone in a hotel room, a glass of white zinfandel on the nightstand and Law and Order on the television.  Frank could take a turn with Ethan and Alice for once, just once, in the four years since he’d backed his sedan out of the garage for the last time.

Alice, though, had grown accustomed to walking into the house without bracing herself for Frank’s complaints about whatever detail of their lives had irritated him in the moments before she arrived.  She pulled her ancient Civic into driveway and extended her exhale.  She clicked the handle and stepped out, turning to retrieve her backpack, stuffed with textbooks and loose papers, from the back seat.   Then, she marched through the open garage and turned the handle on the back door.

That's it!  You can read previous installments of #NovelSnip HERE.

All hail the three-day weekend!  I've got plans for the day, and they include some grading, some lesson planning, some practicing the violin, writing a few sentences of the fiction writing project, maybe a little time on the treadmill, and catching up on television.

The question, clearly, is Can I get this all done?  I'm not sure, but I'm going to give it my all nonetheless.

Well, I've become completely obsessed with the book project. This week, I forced myself to take a little time off to let the thing rest. My fingers have started feeling itchy from the lack of drafting.

I'm filling my time by writing a new book review (Rich and Pretty by Rumaan Alam), checking in here, and of course, doing my full-time paying job with the middle schoolers. I also called to schedule some overdue appointments and got my car serviced.

"When's the book getting published?" one class asked me today.

"Maybe never," I said, "but creative projects aren't always about the end result. "They're about the process of making the thing."

"You could always make your own book on the internet," one kid said. I appreciated that. I'll consider it when the time comes.

Anyway, I've noticed some side effects of becoming enveloped in a writing project. A big one is that I cannot just read a novel. Instead, I'm constantly thinking about the author's structure. Like, "What is the writer doing here? This is too much 'telling,' and yet, I'm still engaged. How did she make that happen? How is she working the transitions work between narrators? This plot has no action, and yet I can't stop reading. Why? Oh look, another commercial fiction story wrapped up in a bow at the ending! Where's the action on the first page of this one? Why am I bored right here?" And on and on. I guess this is reading like a writer? It's interesting, but it's also gotten a little out of hand.

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  I haven't been writing as much as I'd like, but I'm not giving up.  This picks up right where last week's left off. Chronological order, my friends!  Making a story!!

“Norah,” said Ellen, her roommate, one afternoon as the two wiled away  the last few minutes before the dining hall opened at five, “you should really come to the Spring Fling.”  The Central Wisconsin Association of Colleges put on the event each year, a social of sorts between St. Bonifacius and the other area schools.  

“No,” said Norah, “that’s not my kind of thing.” She stared into the mirror and tried to force the wisps of fine blond hair on her temples into some kind of order.

“Oh come on,” Ellen pleaded, her blue-jeaned legs crossed and her own blond hair pulled into matching low pigtails that bubbled over her wide-collared green shirt.  “There will be boys there.”  She hissed the s and bugged her eyes out.  “And bands, and almost everyone from 3rd MM is going,” she raised her eyebrows comically. Ellen and Norah both knew that the latter girl couldn’t stand to be left out.

“I have to study,” Norah said.

“On Saturday afternoon?” Ellen replied, sarcastically.  “No, you don’t.”  Norah met Ellen’s eyes in the mirror.  The two had grown steadily closer, especially since the afternoon when Ellen arrived in room 316 after her biology lab to find Norah wracked with sobs and curled underneath her bed.  Ellen had immediately dropped to the floor and softly stroked Norah’s hair from behind.

“It’s okay,” she’d whispered, before she’d even known.  “Everything’s going to be fine.”  A few minutes later, Norah had scooted back into the middle of the room and Ellen had laughed at the coating of dust that clung to Norah’s right side.

“Thanks for doing the cleaning,” Ellen said, smiling, reaching out with her hand to sweep the damp from Norah’s cheek.  “What happened?” Ellen said, when Norah had eeked out a tiny smile, a half giggle-half sob.

Norah’s breath shuddered as she prepared to tell Ellen her shameful secret.  “I got a C on my Hamlet paper,” she blurted, tears forming again.  Ellen, who’d been expecting news of a dead grandparent or the financial ruin of the Sullivan family, tried unsuccessfully to keep from laughing.

“Okay,” she said, a smile building from her chin to her cheeks and a few giggles trailing the word.  Norah swatted at her shoulder.

“Don’t laugh,” she said.  “I’m a failure.”

Ellen got to her knees and grabbed her roommate in a heartfelt hug.  “You’re just fine,” she’d said, and Norah hugged her back.

That's it!  Next week, they'll probably be some more.  I mean, I do have more.

The summer wasn't as prolific as I imagined it would be.  I mean, the summer was flipping amazing.  But, I didn't spend a lot of time on this fiction writing project. Back in the spring, my father in-law asked if I could just write this damn book in chronological order.  Also, I got a text from Lee: What's the difference between Alice and Norah? she asked.

Alice stood still in the fiction section and willed him to turn around.  It had to be him – the height right and the build, a slight slouch to the left in his shoulders.  She gulped and watched him scan the spines of the novels, one hand reaching toward the flat front of a staff recommendation.

 

Alice's arms tingled, and she turned back toward the door, reaching her right hand to her ribcage, nervously pressing through her flesh and fingering the ridge sloping away from her sternum.

Should she go out and come back in, making more noise this time? Perhaps she could startle him into turning around and meeting her gaze.  She turned toward the door and took a few steps away before peering backward over her shoulder and changing course.

Deep breath.  Sneakers forward.  A tap on the left scapula, a turn.  Blue eyes through glasses.  A sharp inhale.

Alice tilted toward him, right arm forward.  “Hi,” she breathed.

“Well, hello,” he said, warmly, sliding his left arm over her shoulder and clapping her firmly, as she patted his back.  I’m doing this wrong, she thought, letting her cheek rest briefly against his chest.  She shifted her weight back to her heels and stared at the bottom rims of his glasses, at the way they met his cheeks, the way his nose spread a bit as he smiled at her.  “Shall we walk?” he said, and she nodded, turning back toward the door, a half smile and slight stomachache.

This was not a good week for working on my fiction-writing project.  I spent the week madly prepping for our session at NAIS in Boston, not writing about Frank and Alice and the other characters, whom I will introduce soon.  Luckily, I have other parts already written. This part of the story is back in the pool in Florida, later in this scene that I wrote before.  In this part, Frank tells Alice some things about Norah, Alice's birthmother. Things that Alice isn't quite ready to hear.

Okay. It's #NovelSnip:

Alice’s breath came heavily, her fingers tingling as she loosely gripped the side of the pool.  She kept her eyes focused on the gutter.  “What?” she breathed.

“She sent letters to us, telling us what she was doing and asking about you.”

“She did?”  Lights emanated from the clubhouse, just beyond the deep end where Alice and Frank dangled from the side of the pool.  Alice blinked to orient herself, integrating this new, debilitating information.

“I wrote her back,” Frank continued.

“What did you tell her?”

“Your hobbies, how you were doing in school.”  Alice could feel Frank’s eyes travel her face, but she kept her head down, her breath mingling with the water.  “But like I said,” Frank continued, “we haven’t gotten one now for a couple of years.  So, I think she’s moved on.”

“Okay...” said Alice.

“So you can stop worrying about that.”

“Okay,” Alice repeated.  She dredged breaths from her chest as Frank hoisted himself out of the water above her, planting his knee heavily on the concrete edge and straightening up.  He turned and offered her a hand.  “I got it,” she said, raising her feet to the wall and pushing off on her back.

That's #NovelSnip.  Phew.  I'm at the point now where I feel like I need to map out the whole story.  I might Google about how to do that.  Someone's got to know.

Dan's reasonably supportive of my fiction writing project, but he keeps asking when I'm going to introduce the hero of the story, a guy he's named Stan Best.

"I'm not really sure that Stan is going to be included in the scope of this story," I keep telling him.  "I'm pretty sure Alice is going to be single at the conclusion of the arc I'm contemplating."

"But," Dan protests, "you could just write Stan in as a little vignette.  Like Alice is thinking to herself about the ideal husband, and she magically imagines Stan Best."

"Hmmm," I say.

"Clive Cussler writes himself into all of his books," Stan - I mean Dan - continues.

"He DOES?  How?"  Dan has read like seventy or eighty Clive Cussler adventure novels.

"The main characters meet a little man who helps them on their journey."

"And the man is named Clive Cussler?"

"Yes! And he describes his beard and everything."

While I hear and acknowledge Dan's desire to be represented in my writing as Stan Best, I just can't promise that's going to happen.  And we'll leave it there.

#NovelSnip is a tiny bit of my fiction writing project.  This is the first week where I feel like I have to choose what to post.  Like, I have two options. I wasn't sure if I should show more of Alice and Frank in the pool.  The draft of that scene is complete.  But, I also wanted to show this phone call between my two characters, which takes place maybe five years later.  So, the good news is there are scenes in the queue.

Alice glanced up from her paper on the "Miller’s Tale," the one she was eeking out one painstaking sentence at a time, when she heard it ring.  The window on the front of the flip phone revealed an unfamiliar area code. Alice sighed, clicked the phone open, and took the call.

“Alice?” Frank said, his voice gruff and strained.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, resigned.  

“Happy birthday,” Frank said, sputtering slightly.  “I’m calling to wish you a happy birthday.”

A sudden and fierce rush of anger flashed through Alice’s body, beginning in her stomach and radiating down her limbs and up to her cheeks.

“Happy birthday?” Alice repeated.  The date was December 17th, days before her hometown college’s winter break, snow lightly falling, collecting in airy clumps on the sidewalk. Alice pulled her turtleneck up over her chin with her left hand as she gripped the phone against her right ear.

Her birthday was May 5th.

That's #NovelSnip.  In this scene, Frank has lost his grip on reality.  I had a really hard time writing it.  I'm also having a hard time figuring out what the arc of this story is.  But, that can come later.

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  All week, I've been writing about Norah, mostly about her reaction to getting a bad grade in Shakespeare class at St. Bonifacius College for women .  I'm a little behind on my goals, but I have written more than 5000 words in April.  That's nothing to sneeze at, I think we can agree.  Anyway, here's Norah, freaking out:

Forty minutes passed while Norah scribbled Jones’s main ideas - mutilation, impotence, retribution - in her notebook.  She kept her eyes down, her left hand planted on her desk, her right hand gripping the pen.  Finally, Jones gathered his lecture notes and tapped them on the podium, straightening them into a neat pile.  “All right,” he announced.  “It’s time.”  He reached down to his briefcase and drew out a manila folder.  “They weren’t terrible,” he said, “for a first attempt.”  He scanned the class.  “Now,” he continued, a paternalistic smile creeping onto his face, “if you’re at all displeased with your score, take heart.  Many of my students find their strides later in the semester.”  He propped his elbow patches on the podium and started calling out names.  “Miss Faris,” he began, and a dark-haired, plump girl rose from her second row seat, hand outstretched.  “Miss Anderson,” another girl, a petite gal from Iowa with a button nose, smiled shyly at Professor Jones, whispering her thanks.  Norah’s gut twisted.  “Miss Donaldson,” Jones said, eyes twinkling at Mary Jane.  “Excellent work.”  Norah squeezed her lips together, smashing them into a line.  Six more girls were summoned to the front, while Norah waited, closing her notebook, sliding her Collected Works into her backpack.  Finally, Jones glanced at a paper and called, “Miss Sullivan.”  Norah’s mouth was too dry to speak.  She rose, shuffled to the front, and took the paper between her thumb and forefinger.  She placed it face down on her desk and breathed once.  Then, she peeled the upper left corner up toward her, peeking underneath. The professor had scrawled in red flair pen across the top.

#NovelSnip is a tiny portion of my fiction writing project.  This week I wondered whether I should write an outline of the whole story.  I googled that idea and found out that a good approach could also be, "Don't plan; just write."  I decided to go that route for now because at this juncture, I worry that writing an outline would be a form of procrastination.  Another issue is point of view.  Do I switch off?  Let the narrator be omniscient? It seems like the books I've read recently limit the point of view to one character per scene.  So maybe I should do that?  But I didn't in this scene. So, here it is:

Alice and Ethan slouched on the sofa.  Evelyn and Frank each took an armchair across the coffee table from the children.

“As you know,” Evelyn began.  Alice snuck a sideways glance at Ethan, who was staring at his bare toes.  “Your dad has been looking for a new job.”  Evelyn leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs and looking intently first at Alice, and then Ethan.  “The good news is,” she breathed, “he finally found one.  A good one.  One he’s excited about.”  Evelyn paused deliberately between each phrase, and Alice, embarrassingly, fought the urge to giggle.  Frank shifted, crossing his legs.  “The interesting part of the news,” Evelyn continued, “is that the job is in Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Georgia?” Alice repeated.

“Yes,” Evelyn said.  She looked over at her husband who was smiling awkwardly at the ground in front him.  Evelyn inhaled slowly through her nose.  “Your dad will be moving to Atlanta next week.”

Alice felt a swell in her chest and sat up straighter. “Are you getting divorced?” she asked, slightly louder than she meant to.  

“It’s a separation,” Evelyn said definitely.  “We’re going to do some thinking.” Frank’s breathing, Evelyn suddenly noticed, had become audible, inhales and exhales rattling through his nostrils.  His gaze remained on the floor.  Alice and Evelyn looked at him.

“Do you want to add anything, Frank?” Evelyn prompted. Frank shook his head and flicked his eyes up toward Alice for a moment.  She looked away.  “Ethan?” Evelyn continued.  “Do you have any questions?”  Ethan, shook his head and curled his toes. “Okay,” Evelyn said with some finality.  “Let’s -”

“I’m taking the dog,” Frank blurted.

And that's #NovelSnip this week.  There's more.  I've been aiming for high production over lots of editing.  So, don't even worry about it.