Skip to main content

Camp NaNo Breakdown

April was a swerve. I was in the closet grabbing a shirt last night and glanced at the Small Board of Writing Inspiration. It was still a pretty minty green and makes me happy...but I didn't work on either of the projects mentioned during April.


I ended up landing on the zine:  ordering several from Etsy (post on those coming up!) and deciding that smaller stories with more handcrafting was where I wanted to focus. This meant that I worked more in notebooks and didn't make the word count that I had originally aimed to make in April. Of course, this also meant that I wasn't working on those stories that I'd hoped to (although that WIP designation could mean anything...) and now I'm not sure which direction to take for May.

My particular challenge is finishing.

This is the stage of the project (ideas collected, a draft existing in notebooks and/or the computer, and an artificial deadline passing) where I'm most likely to lay it down and chase the next shiny new project. May, therefore, feels like an important toward finishing. Here, between preparing for the next Camp (in July?!?), the stories that I encountered in April need the behind-the-scenes scrubbing and repairing that makes me want to do laundry. 

Camp is over. Camp prep and polishing has begun.


-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. I think that Camp NaNo was very productive for you and fueled your creativity. You are very creative my friend, in more ways than just writing. I look forward to hearing and seeing more about the zines. Love this blog Chrissa! A wonderful open space for sharing and creativity!

    ReplyDelete
  2. I agree with Carrie ... no one comes close to possessing your unique style, it’s depth, intelligence. Never stop writing.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...

A Single (Terrible) Poem

 I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies.    This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem?  -- Chrissa