Proofreading is a twitbucket

My writing process reveals Itself to me slowly, but I think I have a few things pinned down. I see it in chunks or levels.

Photo courtesy of Google Image Search

These levels help me stay focused on one WIP at a time.

The Outlining Level happens in my head or on paper.

This is not unlike brainstorming for some folks. It's often unintentional. And if I remember this level's musings by the next level (drafting), it moves forward with me. Anything else is jettisoned.

If it was good or important, I'll remember it.

The Drafting Level is where I generate new content on a blank page or screen. This is by far the easiest of levels for me.

I have no shortage of ideas. Not all of them will see the light of day, but my brain has been in story mode since the early 80s.

It's like WIP Central Station up in here (Up. In. Here.) at all times. This is also why I don't drive or write or walk or hang out with music on. It's already too noisy.

Once I've done the WIP due diligence by letting it Stew In It's Own Filth, I will tackle a revision.

Photo courtesy of Google Image Search

The Revising Level is a many splendored thing including, but not limited to: 

• reading the WIP in one sitting
• re-reading the WIP in bits and pieces
• leaving notes/comments to future Erica
• drawing maps
• re-outlining
• Murder She Wrote marathons
• day job, 
• Blogging
• coloring
• cleaning
• snacks

Anything goes at this level because I burn out quickly because I'm on overdrive. However, I am learning not to feel bad about it. 

Why? 

Because Not-Writing is a part of my process. I can't pour from an empty cup. 

The Proofreading Level is a twitbucket and can kiss my printer.

I hate this level with the burning intensity of a hundred-dozen D+ essays. Let me be clear: I am a decent proofreader. But I am just not wired to see my own WIP objectively.

Of course I've tried proofreading for myself, but when I do all that happens is that my revising-self steamrolls in and drops these plot twist ideas that should be squashed down long ago.

Photo courtesy of Google Image Search

This Blog is Not Precious And So Can You!

Greetings from the epiphany I had last night.

Once a month I carpool to my Jane Austen Appreciation Group with a brilliant writer. We talk shop. Let's call her Jane-Austen-Writer-Friend.

On our ride yesterday, Jane-Austen-Writer-Friend told me about how she's produced "...over a thousand pieces of published writing since college. Nothing ground breaking. But still...they're published," she said.

And before I could ask how she thought she was able to produce so much, she answered me.

She shrugged. "My writing isn't precious. I don't treat it like it's something special. Because it's not. It's words. Any my words are not precious. If they were, I'd never write anything. There'd be too much pressure."

What I took from that is this:

Jane-Austen-Writer-Friend's ability to let go of writing or, more specifically, to see it through a detached but respectful distance eliminates any opportunities for self-doubt.

And with that nugget in mind I finally update this blog. Why? Because Jane-Austen-Writer-Friend was right. Regardless of where I go in my writing and editing career, this blog is not precious. But I'd been procrastinating on posting because I didn't have anything amazing or hilarious or inspiring to say. And that's OK.

Anyway, here's a picture of my dogs.

Henry, Finnegan, and Ridley. April 2018.

I do the words.

It's about dang time for some good news.

I booked my first client. I am now available for freelance editing.

While I'm still working out my full menu of services--even editors have their favorites: I HATE GRAMMAR-- I know I want it to include those services I needed when I was starting out with my own manuscript. 

In that perfect ericacentric model of the universe in which I live some of those services would include:

Full In-manuscript comments...$.007/word

Gut Reaction To Your Title......$3

Talking You Out Of Quitting.....$Unicorn stickers

Talking You Into Quitting For the Right Reasons.....$nuggles

Is This Chapter Ending In The Right Place?.....$New Tea Mug Filled With Junior Mints!

As I started writing this post seven minutes ago, the above menu items were, of course, a joke, but something is ringing true for me here. I have hired editors in the past two years and what I can say is I got what I paid for, in the best way possible. But I just wasn't ready for it. Maybe I should have started with a chapter critique. I just didn't feel comfortable reading from someone else what was NOT working with my manuscript.

I wonder if parents feel this. I wonder if MY parents felt this... 

"Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Davis, thanks for coming in. Erica is great to have in this story, but she's just not making sense--as a person. Maybe you could delete her and have a horse farm instead? Or maybe she' be better off in a flashback you only think about at Samhain?"

So maybe there's something there. At any rate, change is in the air and I am ready. 

If and when you might be ready for a fresh set of eyes on something, send me a message at erica.secor@gmail.com or via DMs on Twitter @TheDavisGirl. 

If I don't offer what you need just yet, we'll figure it out together.

Stay classy cookie pantsers.

Downward Farting Dog: Adventures in Beginning Yoga

Puppy stretching courtesy of Google image search.

So I went to my third neighborhood yoga class today.

Puppy stretching courtesy of Google image search.

There were six of us, plus the instructor. And I ripped one. Real good.

Puppy stretching courtesy of Google image search.

Not that it was pungent. Just well-heard.

Puppy stretching courtesy of Google image search.

I mean, the instructor did say today's focus would be on poses that are good for the digestive track, so in the ericacentric model of the universe in which I reside,

Puppy stretching courtesy of Google image search.

she took it as a compliment.

Puppy stretching courtesy of Google image search.

And a very special thanks to my new yoga partner (looking at you SG) who didn't even bat an eyelash.

Footage of SG and Erica at yoga (courtesy of Google images).

Namaste, girl.

I Don't Have to Wear Real Pants Anymore

My mom died last month so I don't have to wear real pants anymore. 

Close up of the unicorn onesie.

It's true. Grief and mourning just come with this zone of proximal understanding from friends and strangers alike.

"Hello, ma'am did you [takes in my unicorn onesie] find everything okay?"

"My mom just died."

"Oh. Honey. Well just look at your shiny horn!"

I also have these amazing huge elastic band flower pants that make me want to cry they are so light and cozy. I feel like I'm in a commercial when I wear them.

Ah, cookie pants--those forgiving stretchy favorites that fit no matter what time of the month it is for me. I think the original reference is from "Scrubs." Something about wearing pants that stretch so you can eat as many cookies as you want without a waistband cutting you in half. 

Now, I'm lucky enough to work from home so 92% of my wardrobe is pajamas, cookie pants, backup pajamas, loose leggings, and T-shirts. The rest is dresses I don't have to zip. Oh, and one pair of jeans reserved for Target runs. Where I can get more cookie pants. Also, my toes have been cold since 2006 so I'm usually in slippers.

Gorgeous.

I don't know why I'm thinking about my wardrobe right now.

Maybe it has to do with the basics? Food, clothing, shelter. At all of which my mom was an effing genius. A goddess. I miss her so swearing much. If the irreversible hole ripped into these last seven and a half weeks has taught me anything it's that I've missed blogging for her too. The only reason I started this blog was to hear my parents laugh.

Whatever I end up doing with it, it feels right, for now. And it's good to be back.

Especially in cookie pants.

Mom and me in 2016. Love you Momma.

2016: A Year in Photos