For Whom the Bell Tolls...

...is an awesome song to play on Guitar Hero Metallica. But the ominous pealing of bells indicating the approach of the end of one's time is also a powerful reminder of my current preoccupation. A deadline.

I love deadlines. No, seriously, I do. Those aren't sarcastic italics. I am one of the world's great procrastinators. Hamlet and Scarlet O'Hara look like poster kids for a purpose-driven life compared to me without a deadline (and sometimes with one, too). Case in point, I'm leaving for ten days in less than twenty-four hours. Maybe I should start to pack, especially since most of those remaining hours will be spent at work or asleep. I've still got time, right?

I've been working on this book since November. I'd tell you what it's called, but it's still in the title changing room, trying on about a hundred different titles to find one that fits just right. --Any luck, hon? Almost? Okay.—So, I'll get back to you on that. I am a pantser straight through to my soul, and whatever it is that tells me what happens next is perfectly happy to hang out and play Sims or Guitar Hero or reorganize my playlist or try on titles or come up with a teasingly hot scene for another book instead of focusing on the current project. That's where ticking clocks and tolling bells and flashing digital counters come in handy. There's nothing like a deadline to get that lazy can't-I-think-about-it-later? part of my brain back in action. There is no tomorrow. (Really, there isn't. I'm going on vacation. Guess the netbook's going with me.)

If you don't have the thrill of an actual deadline to inspire you, or that's still too far off, you can do what I did earlier this week. One of my critique partners finds herself in a similarly adrift boat when it comes to her WIP. So we made a bet. Twenty bucks says we can't meet a mini-deadline. Hers was chapter six. Mine was 12,000 words. If one of us made it and the other didn't, the loser forfeited the cash. I still had 10K to write as of Friday, and I spent the weekend at a conference. She did hers on Sunday. But we both made it. There's nothing like pride, cash and a hard and fast deadline to trigger inspiration. The WIP took off again.

So if you see someone way too old to be wearing that princess tiara scribbling in a notebook as she stumbles around Disneyworld for the next ten days, say "Hi." It's me. But I can't chat long. The clock is ticking.

Ficcus Interruptus

My trusty magic notebook and I went back to Disney World at Christmas. And while I hammered out 7K of my work-in-progress, the magic bus-summoning ability of my notebook remained.

You see if you stay at a Disney resort, a bus comes and picks you up to take you to your choice of theme park. Christmas week is a peak time and it was as crowded as I’ve ever seen it, yet the magic notebook could not be stopped. Even if we’d just missed the last bus, after three sentences another bus to our resort would appear (despite the stated standard of twenty-minutes between buses.)

So picture if you will me—a woman in a princess tiara, T-shirt and shorts—scribbling in a 4 x 6 notebook while waiting for the bus to the Magic Kingdom at 7:00 in the morning, surrounded by hollowed-eyed parents drinking coffee and on-the-verge-of-tantrum hyped up children.

His fingers brushed the worn spot on Trey’s jeans where his holster rode, a broken fingernail catching on the frayed threads as Trey helped Daniel shove jeans and briefs out of the way. Trey rocked his hips forward as Daniel lifted the thickening length to his lips. A big heavy hand sifted through Daniel’s hair while he rubbed his face over the soft skin, stroking and kissing, fingers—

Nudge. “It’s our bus.” And alas, I get motion sickness—in cars and buses, not on rides—so I couldn’t finish that sentence on the bus. Poor Trey.

While in the parks, I did manage a few pages in lines, or waiting for food. My notebook knew no power over the lines for food. There is a delicious dissonance to writing the some of the words frequently used in my genre while the high-pitched giggles from a Mickey Mouse stage show drift across the artificial castle moats to where you are sitting at a table waiting for your vegetarian noodle bowl from the Tomorrowland Terrace.

But when it was time to return to the resort, I had no sooner stopped in the queue and put pen to paper… It was that coaxing whisper again, despite the whiskey-hoarse voice, but just as Daniel opened his mouth to protest, Trey whispered, “Nah, not trying to seduce you. Just want to know. I want to make you scream.”

Warmth exploded— A snort of laughter from my beloved spouse. “Bus is here.”

“But it’s not fair. Dialogue really shouldn’t count in the three sentence rule.”

“But the bus is still here.”

Honestly, whatever happened to those inconveniently long lines I remember from trips when I wasn’t writing to deadlines?

I hope you’re all enjoying your start to 2009. Happy New Year. Right now, I have some very frustrated characters to attend to.

You Wrote That Where?

Actually, I write everywhere. I always have a notebook on me; I get twitchy if I’m too far away from a pen and paper. So when I said I wrote the blow-job scene for the Round Robin in line for Pirates of the Caribbean at Walt Disney World, I wasn’t kidding.

And that wouldn’t be the only blow-job or sex scene I’ve written while hanging with The Mouse. I love Disney World. We go at least once a year, but at some point the santitized fun needs a little subverting. I can only listen to so many toddler tantrums while in line. Sometimes I even get disappointed if the lines are too short. What’s better than writing my favorite kind of story in my favorite place to be? Over the years, I figure I’ve done at least a novel’s worth of writing while weaving along the convoluted queues.

This year I ran into an unexpected hazard and not just because my notebook was a magic charm to get the bus to come as soon as I set pen to paper. No, this was far more perilous. One gorgeous day, I sat on a bench in Hollywood Studios waiting for the new parade to start, scribbling away on my new story. Street performers taking on exaggerated personas from 1930’s Hollywood entertained the preparade crowds. One performer in the guise of a director came over and, despite my protests and desperate clutch, ripped the notebook from my hands and said he was going to read it. He flipped through several pages.

But I was saved from permanent banishment from the wonder that is WDW because my tiny scrawl is more indecipherable than a doctor’s--and because Aaron and Joey hadn’t done it yet. I don’t know exactly how disguised the word cock would be even in my hummingbird scratch.

So did the character's prying curtail my porning efforts? Not at all. I came home with a good start on my new book and a deep resolve never to try to write more neatly. I don’t know which characters’ exploits will grace the pages of my notebook on our Christmas trip, but I’m thinking about tying the notebook around my neck.