The House of Writing Metaphors - Ugly Bathroom of Self-Loathing

Today on HoWM (House of Writing Metaphors) my series continues with self-editing, and why my bathtub needs a serious Find+Replace run on it for "soap scum" and "scrubbing bubbles."

When I moved into my new HoWM I felt a little awkward using the bathroom. It wasn't my house yet, and I felt like I was intruding on somebody else's space when I took a bath. I got over it, but I still despise the downstairs bathroom for one very simple reason.

It's ugly.

Also, one of the light fixtures in there is trying to kill me, but we'll get to that later this week.

One trick about loving old farmhouses is that most of them had plaster walls originally, and when that plaster began to crumble, owners tossed up wood paneling. It paints up pretty nice, but I won't waste paint on that bathroom.

It's ugly.

I admit to not cleaning it often. Which truly, what am I thinking that will accomplish? Because dirty ugly is way better than clean ugly? Yet, I can't bring myself to get down on hands and knees and scrub that tub because...

It'll still be ugly.

So I shower in there, look at the rings on the sides and hate myself a little bit. Very productive.

The rough draft of an ms is like that - ugly. Sometimes we look at it and it doesn't seem to belong to us. That's why self-editing is critical, and like all important things in life, very difficult. It's easy to read that first draft and declare that you hate it. It's ugly. Give up on it.

Being ugly is exactly the job of a first draft. It's a basic framework telling you what your story IS, down in the bare bones. My ugly bathroom is for bathing and I can do that in there just fine, but it's not going to look good until I make it look good, and that means effort on my part.

So stop hating your first run-through for being ugly. Take out the steel wool and clean it up. 'Cause no one else is going to.

How do you deal with first-draft hatred? Do you take a breather before returning to the story for the edits? Or do you go back to page one with your red pencil right after typing THE END?

The House of Writing Metaphors - The Superfluous Banister

Today on Mindy’ HoWM - (House of Writing Metaphors) we're going to talk about plot. And my superfluous banister.

I'm not really sure where this guy came from. I'm guessing there's a staircase behind this wall, but I haven't gotten around to tearing it down yet, because unlike the banister the wall is not superfluous. So it's just a bit of my quirky house that I've become accustomed to, not really noticing it anymore until someone new comes over and says, "Uh???"

Even though it's not attached to stairs, my banister does serve a purpose. I'm a Pantster writer - the kind who sits down in front of the WIP and says, "OK brain, what happens today?" Usually the brain has a pretty good idea, or at least enough bullshit sitting in there for my hands to process before the real words start flowing.

But sometimes... sometimes the brain just looks at me and says, "What? You haven't been taking your vitamins and now you want me to fix this massive plot stuck? Sorry, lady." And then I'm left wondering what the internet has to say to me today, and we all know what a massive time-suck that is.

Being a Pantster is great because it allows you total freedom. Wanna kill someone? Go ahead! She's pregnant? Who knew! But there are times when I envy the Planner's nice outline that always tells them where the staircase is, and how many steps are in it. Namely, when I grab on tight to that plot and it runs me straight into a wall.

The Superfluous Banister reminds me that not planning means my plot might not always take me down the right path, but if I can break through that wall, there's bound to be some stairs behind it.

Are you a Planner or a Pantster? Do you envy the other side?

The House of Writing Metaphors - The Staircase of Fate

Welcome to my HoWM - that's Mindy's House of Writing Metaphors. This week I'm going to share with you more of my rambling old farmhouse, and how it provides me with writing metaphors on a daily basis, in just about every room. We're starting off today with a repost of a story about me cracking my head open.

Yes, technically this first Mindy''s HoWM post is completely lacking in metaphors, but it is a great example of how amusing a concussion can be. Check in all this week for real metaphors, and a picture of my potty!

It's time for another, extra-special glimpse into MindyLand - a fascinating place in which the reliable narrator appears to be protected by a higher power, cause really, I shoulda died.

And I promise, it ties into writing. Eventually. Bear with me.

I live in a big old, rambling farmhouse, with a big old takes-forever-to-climb, built-at-an-alarming-angle staircase.  I love my big old house, and the staircase was a serious motivating factor when I bought the house. Then it tried to kill me this past winter.

*Pause for world-building info dump*

My bedroom is on the second floor; a bathroom in the process of renovation is conveniently, right next door.  If one were (and, one often does) to walk out of the bathroom, you take a hard left to get to the bedroom.  Then there's a Misleading Bit O'Wall (reason for being thus dubbed to follow) and, immediately following, also on the left, the Staircase of Fate.  Said stairs are made out of real dead trees, not pressed and hardened cardboard.  And there used to be carpet on them.  I took it off.  Very.  Very. Smart.

So late one night - technically, it was very early, cause I'm a stay-upper like that - last December I found myself in need of the potty.  I make that trip, and flip off the light in the bathroom as I exit - cause who needs the lights on to make a hard left turn into their own bedroom? But it's late, and I'm tired, so when I put my hand out and feel the Misleading Bit O'Wall ending, I think oh good - bedroom - and commenced to step out into nothingness.  I was already leaning forward a bit, reaching for the light switch inside the bedroom, so I don't do one of those slippity, land on your butt things.  I fell completely forward and went end over end so that the very first thing that HIT was literally the crown of my head.  On a step.  A hard one.  With no carpet.  I heard the *CRUNCH* inside my head as my neck impacted.

Thought process went like this, as I stepped into nothingness, surrounded by pitch blackness:

1) Where the hell did my bedroom floor go?

2) *CRUNCH* Oh shit, I'm falling down the stairs, and I think my neck just got shorter.

3) Wow, this is really taking a long time to get to the bottom

4) *still falling down the stairs* Do these stairs end?  It would be really terrifying if I just kept falling.

5) *MEATY SMACK as I hits the bottom* (cause she never really slowed down) Oh good, I'm done falling, the perpetual stairs theory is false.

6) Ouch

7) I appear to be alright

8) *attempts to stand, immediate vomit reaction, curls into fetal position* Should I call the squad?  I can either crawl the length of the house to the security panel and do that, or crawl back up the stairs to my cell phone.

9) Well, I'm butt ass naked so I don't think I will go for option one.  (Inside track - BBC sleeps in the nude. Yeah, cause that's how I roll - and let me tell you, the bruises were interesting).

So I crawl back up the stairs, to call my Mommy and Daddy - cause that's also how I roll.  And an interesting conversation follows:

Mindy: (after a few dials cause it's like, 3 AM) Hi Mom - first of all, I think I'm OK, but I fell down my stairs and I want you to come and make sure I don't fall asleep and not wake up, or vomit and choke on it and die in my sleep.

MOM: (long sigh) How did you manage to do that?

Mindy: Does it matter?  I just DID!

MOM: Hold on.

*I overhear MOM waking up DAD*

MOM: Here - keep your daughter talking on the phone while I drive over there to make sure she's OK.

DAD: What happened?

MOM:  She fell down the stairs.

DAD: How did she manage to do that?

Why am I telling you all this?

Well, shortly after the Staircase of Fate escapade, I began analyzing the thought process I had while in the act of getting shorter.  When something alarming, sudden, and traumatizing happens to our characters, we tend to make them aware of what's going on.  But the truth is, when something like that occurs in real life, we are so disoriented we have no CLUE what is happening - hence my wondering why my bedroom floor had evaporated.

I'll leave you with a related conversation, that has no bearing on writing.  A week after my Fateful Fall Forward I was still dizzy at random moments, and slightly sluggish.  So I thought - Hey!  Maybe I should go to the Dr!  *dials phone*

Mindy: Yeah I need to get an appt.

Receptionist: And what do we need to see you for today?

Mindy: I fell down my stairs and I think I have a concussion.

Recept: Ma'am? Would you like us to call the squad for you?

Mindy: Oh no, this was like a week ago.

Recept: (long pause) What are your symptoms?

Mindy: I'm dizzy and nauseous, plus I want to sleep a lot.

Recept: For a week now?

Mindy: Yeah

Recept: OK - be here in the office in 15 minutes. I'm taking the liberty of scheduling you for an MRI as well, cause they're going to want to do that.

Mindy: Well, it'll have to be in half an hour, it'll take me that long to drive there.

Recept: You're driving yourself around?

Mindy: Uh... nooooo, no, of course not.