NaNoWriMo ends, and the real work begins.

November 30, 2009 at 5:35 pm (locked & cranked, nanowrimo, writing) (, , , , , )

I did it. Can you believe it? After however many days during which I was sick, or exhausted, or just too fragile to delve into the subject matter that makes up “Locked & Cranked,” I actually did it. I broke the 50K mark this morning, and while I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to some degree of relief, the truth is that I don’t feel like I’m anywhere near “done.”

And you know what? That’s a good thing.

I had a few people express some pretty major doubts about me taking this story on so soon after losing Martin, and a big part of me was nodding right along with them. But the rest of me knew that, if I left it any longer, it would never happen. One very dear friend gave me the words I needed to hear on a day when I felt like throwing in the towel; I will never forget how she put it.

Take a deep breath. The book needs to be born now, love, and that’s going to hurt you. Nothing gets born without hurting its mother. But you’ll get through it, and it will be worth it.

She was right. As much as I cried after reading her note to me, I knew she was right. And here I am, on November 30th, able to say that I stuck with it and, I hope, gave myself a good jumping-off point to write this book the way it was meant to be written.

(To read any of what I’ve posted, just browse the “Locked & Cranked” links in the right-hand list, or click on the Locked & Cranked” tag. And remember that it’s all first draft stuff, and not even in chronological order, before you write me off forever!)

As you all probably know by now, one of the things I put in place so as not to allow myself to falter was the promise of raising money for charity in Martin’s name, once I’d officially “won” NaNo. Initially I’d named only one charity, one that seemed fitting in his memory…but I’d like to add a second option, for anyone who’s interested in donating. The first, of course, is for Suicide Prevention. The second was Martin’s favourite charity, one for which he worked tirelessly every year: the Ride To Conquer Cancer for Princess Margaret Hospital. Right after he passed, countless friends and fans raised the money he himself would have brought to the table, had things gone differently. As a result, the Hospital has a page dedicated to him now.

Martin Streek - Princess Margaret Hospital tribute

They’ve titled it, “Martin Streek – What an extraordinary legacy to leave behind.” Yes, indeed. I’m forever grateful that I donated while he was still with us. And I beg of you, please read that page written about him. It’s beautiful.

So, my friends, you may feel a stronger tie to one charity than the other, or maybe, if you were planning to donate $10 in his memory, you’ll want to send $5 to each. It’s all up to you – whether you donate, and where, and how much – while I’m simply acting as a conduit for all of this. It’s my hope that, if everyone is able to go through me, I’ll be able to collect any “In Memory Of…” or “Tribute” cards and have them sent to Martin’s family. This Christmas will be hard for them. I imagine it has to help for them to know how many of us still think about their son and brother every day.

You are, certainly, welcome to donate privately to either cause. But if you’d like to be counted among those whose well-wishes I’ll be extending to the Streek family, there are ways to do that, too.

1) If you have a PayPal account, you can transfer your donation to me (with instructions as far as which charity you’d like which amount to go to, and what name you’d like to appear on the card), and I’ll send it along on your behalf. You can use this button; it’s very simple and safe. Just don’t forget to leave me info, such as your name, when you donate!

2) If you’d like to make a donation on your own, and would like to have a tribute card sent but don’t have an address for Martin’s family, you’re welcome to contact me for my mailing address (via email, comments left here, Facebook, phone…whatever works!), and you can have the cards mailed to me so I can deliver them. The links for both charities are as follows, if you’d like the option of having a tribute card sent:

3) If you’d prefer to handle the donation end of things entirely on your own, but would still like me to write your name down in the card I’ll be sending to the Streeks (assuming that’s okay with them; they are obviously the most important consideration here), contact me via email to let me know where your donation went, and I will add your name and your wishes for the family to the note they’ll receive from me.

Thank you so very much to everyone who offered words of kindness and encouragement throughout the last several months. Without you, not one of those 50,000 words would exist today. I couldn’t have done this alone. Now it’s time for me to keep at it and turn this into the book Martin wanted to read. And while we’re at it, if we can give a little to a cause that would matter to him…that would be nice, too.

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Locked & Cranked: a (p)review and an explanation.

October 28, 2009 at 8:12 pm (locked & cranked, nanowrimo, writing) (, , , , , )

NaNoWriMo

I’d attempted to finish this book before within the constraints of NaNoWriMo. Twice before, actually. Both times, I had the unwavering support of the man who inspired one central character: Martin Streek.

This year, I won’t have my muse within reach. He left us on July 6th, 2009, and I’m left wondering if I stand a chance at finishing this book at all.

What I’d like, more than anything, is to have something by November 30th that I can give to Martin’s mother and brothers. They know I’ve been working on the project off and on for a couple of years, and I need to switch gears somehow, to use them as my motivation, even without having Martin’s encouragement, or being able to hear that devilish laugh whenever I would address him by his alter ego’s name.

For now, as I gear up and hope against hope that I can still write anything, I’m posting the very brief “prologue”-esque part of what was to be “Locked & Cranked v1.0”; other excerpts may follow, if you guys think they’re worth reading. The tone of “L&C v2.0” will be the same, but the plot twists will have to change, because without Martin here… Well. It will all make sense, if I can pull it off.

Let me know what you think, and if it’s a work worth pursuing. I know Martin thought so. But can I do his family proud?
—–

    Locked & Cranked v1.0 (started in 2006)

It didn’t take much. One email, really, and Ivy went head over heels down the rabbit hole. One single email consisting of one single line. Sort of says something about the strength of her convictions to begin with, doesn’t it?

She started out as average in pretty much every way. Average height, average weight, average life. Maybe you could buy the story her fourth-grade teachers sold about her bordering-on-genius IQ, but after you’ve read all of this, you might not be so sure.

She was 21. Sort of pretty, in an unconventional way. Lots of friends, a few boyfriends here and there. Lousy grades in college, typical of a perfectionist who didn’t want to try anything if there was any chance it might come off as half-assed.

So far, you’re bored. You’re asking yourself why on earth you’d ever want to read more about this girl who was anything but a statistical anomaly.

Well, I’ll tell you why.

That average girl with a decent brain and a normal social life? You’re about to watch her fall apart. And not through some tragic twists of fate that never gave her a fighting chance. Everything that happened to Ivy was her own damned fault.

We all know this.

And ten years later, when the cake with 31 candles is brought into her windowless room by an orderly and the night nurse we all call Flo, I don’t like Ivy any more than you will once we’re through here.

Trust me.
—–

Martin's note to me.
The note Martin scrawled in the back of my NaNo L&C notebook.

There is a great desire on my part to make this year’s NaNo about more than just 50,000 fictional words. I’m opening up the opportunity, for anyone who’d like to take it, to pledge money toward my 50K word goal. The funds will go directly to Suicide Prevention via CanadaHelps.Org, and I have no doubt that the promise of money to such a cause will spur me on that much more and will make me finish this book once and for all. A dollar here, a dollar there – it adds up. So, for me, and for Martin (and his family), if you’d like to add that incentive and pledge a donation of any size in his name (payable only once I deliver the goods, of course), please do let me know. Comment here, message me privately, just give me the heads up (I won’t otherwise know). On November 30th I can then present a working manuscript and donations to Martin’s family, in his name.

That, I know, would make everyone proud.


My profile: https://prettyh.wordpress.com/tag/nanowrimo/

My writing: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/108054

The participants’/Buddy thread on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/topic.php?uid=120164439843&topic=13185

Main page/info: http://www.facebook.com/Heather.V.Swanson

The charity: http://www.suicideinfo.ca/csp/go.aspx?tabid=5

My muse: http://www.martinstreek.com

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“Quartered”

September 9, 2009 at 1:31 pm (writing) (, , , )

A short, short story – and a bit autobiographical – written at 3 a.m. on my 25th birthday. The subject of the story has not and will never read this. Names have been changed, although the scenario described in the story itself is wholly fictional. ETA: For those who’ve asked, no, it is not about Martin.

Posted by request.

Rated 14A for explicit language and (non-graphic) sexual themes.

    QUARTERED

It wasn’t until my twenty-fifth birthday that I truly realized I was doomed. You know how everyone has an image of herself, even if it’s only a fleeting self-portrait called up in a moment of introspection? Well, mine was quite vivid. In my mind’s eye I was a young woman dressed in flowing white, a gaping hole in my chest, my hands outstretched and holding my still-beating heart before me. Begging for the next passerby to grab hold of it and break it yet again.

Five a.m. I stayed perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the clock on the nightstand. One slight move on my part would wake Peter, and I didn’t want that. Instead I let my head sink further into the feather pillow beneath it, listening to his deep, even breath behind me. I almost laughed at the pity of it. How could I find such a banal sound so beautiful? How could I allow myself to ache like that, simply from hearing the basest sound of human life? But I didn’t laugh, pitiful as it may have been. Laughter would wake Peter, too.

I must have drifted back to sleep somehow, lost in the blissful memory of entwined limbs and empty promises from the night before. When my eyes snapped open again, the clock read 5:42, and I could tell from the faint chill against my back that Peter was gone.

I turned over and stared at the imprint of his body still clear in my designer sheets. Early morning light in August always gives things an unreal, dreamlike feeling–the gauzy, unfocused way sunlight filters through a sheer curtain. I felt like I had a lot in common with that light sometimes. Unfocused and fleeting.

“The princess wakes,” I heard from the doorway. I lifted my head and saw him standing naked against the frame. Months of mornings like this have passed, and never had the little stab in my heart failed to make its appearance when I first saw him. He smiled, nonchalant. He either doesn’t know about my agony, or he doesn’t care.

“I’ve been awake for a while now,” I said, pulling the sheets up to my neck and sitting up to face him. He sauntered over to the bed and crawled across it, panther-like. I felt, not for the first time, as though I was his voluntary prey. And it thrilled me.

His lips touched mine, and I immediately wanted him again.

“You lie,” he whispered. “You were sleeping like the dead when I got up. You even had a smile on your face. Were you dreaming?”

I licked his lips and drew him down to me. The weight of him upon me gave me the only security I knew then. I found myself wishing it really were only a sheet that stood between us. “Dreaming?” I sighed. “It’s so hard to say with me… What’s real and what isn’t in my life, after all?”

He missed the jab completely and touched my cheek. “Will I see you this weekend?”

My heart did that strange little jump that always seemed to precede a confrontation. Not this time, I swore to myself. Don’t give away too much. Instead of searching his face desperately for any clue to suggest that he had not, in fact, forgotten today was my birthday, I casually shrugged and let my body relax. Even something that simple seemed impossible when he was nearby.

“A shrug?” he said, one eyebrow raised. His strong arms lifted his body away from mine, and the nonexistent Arctic chill seemed to fill the void between us. “C’mon. Be a bit more committal than that. Lily and the kids are leaving for the East coast on Friday. We should make the most of it.”

“I had made plans already, actually,” I responded, not meeting his eyes. “I’d have to be given pretty good reason to change them.”

Challenged, Peter pulled the sheet from my body. He paused for a moment to take me in with his eyes, and then descended upon me, a wicked smile twisting his gorgeous lips. Our skin pressed together, the most natural feeling in the world… I was sure he was going to take me again… But he merely kissed me, hard, and then pulled away once more.

“If I had more time, I’d motivate you. But I’m running late. The show starts in an hour…”

I waved a hand dismissively, having heard it all before. He ignored me and went on, probably liking the sound of his own voice more than caring what he was talking about.

“…so that’s all the more reason for you to cancel whatever you’re doing and come away with me for the weekend.”

“So now we’re going away?”

“Sure.”

“What’s the occasion?” I left the door wide open, regretting it instantly, knowing I’d only ache more as a result but feeling like I didn’t have a choice.

“Why do we need an occasion?” was his unintentionally crushing reply. “We don’t need a statutory holiday to fuck…although Labour Day is fast approaching…”

I almost hated him then. He could always find levity in the moment. Talking about taking your work home with you, I thought sourly. Oh, our torrid affair would make for great comedic fodder on his show, all right. I wondered, not for the first time, how well received a call-in would be from the top ranked radio host’s mistress.

“Fine. Whatever.” I snapped back into the here and now and realized I wouldn’t be able to hide my dismay for much longer. Besides, god forbid, he was going to be late. “Just call me when she’s gone. Or email me. We’ll go from there.”

He looked smugly satisfied, knowing my “plans” were already cancelled and forgotten in favour of a weekend fling with him. I fought the urge to slap him and instead reached for the sheet to cover myself again. Even symbolic protection was better than none.

“Okay.” He leaned in and gave me an impersonal kiss on the cheek, as though we hadn’t explored all levels of Xanadu together only hours earlier. With that, he grabbed his clothes from the floor and disappeared from the room.

Even knowing how pathetic it was, I sat in bed, waiting, knowing he couldn’t possibly be that insensitive. Knowing I could never be so much in love with a man who fucks me but forgets my birthday. It wasn’t until I heard the front door to my apartment slam, without so much as a goodbye, let alone an acknowledgment of the day, that I allowed myself to cry.


~Heather V. Swanson, August 21st, 2001

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