My NaNo2009 experience in a nutshell

What prompted this post is an email I read this afternoon. It's time stamped two days ago (I haven't really had time to READ my mail, just skim through every few days for important notices & such) and tells me, at length, how pathetic and what a loser I am for not completing NaNo again this year.

Awesome. Good to hear from you. *delete*

How that email came about is that sometime in the later half of November (I don't remember the date, exactly, and not in a place where I could look it up right now) I got into a very short but heated argument with an author I'm acquainted with online. She's the published author of a couple of e-books and, if I'm not mistaken, at least one story in print. I only know her online, and don't even know that much about her. At best, we're acquaintances. At worst, we're strangers that occasionally bump into one another in writing communities online.

She caught me online one night and chastised me for not updating my NaNo word count. I explained that it hadn't been updated because I hadn't written anything beyond where it was at that time, that life had gotten more than a little hectic and I just hadn't had the time. And, without warning, that's when she took me to the mat. She told me that I was making excuses again, that other people manage to juggle life and writing, and that in the time she's known me (not quite 3 years) all I ever did was make excuses for why I didn't write.

I sat staring at the messages popping up on my screen, just one thought my mind. "What. The. Fuck." I didn't respond right away, very simply because I didn't know what to say. She, however, had plenty to say.

There were a lot of short, rapid-fire messages from her and, to sum it up, she went on to tell me that she no longer wanted to hear from me because I obviously wasn't serious about writing and she didn't have time for pretenders. She let me know that I would never be published, that I would never be successful, and that I should stop wasting people's time by bothering them when I had no intention of actively pursuing a writing career. She told me that I had to be willing to make the hard choices and make the sacrifices and do whatever it takes to make time to write because nothing was more important than that.

And that's about when I snapped. I wasn't nice in my response. I was downright bitchy. I basically told her to go her merry way, told where she could stick her judgments of me, and gave some explicit instructions on how to use them. I signed off without waiting for a response and cried myself to sleep.

Ok, so maybe it wasn't really an ARGUMENT so much as a verbal whipping and some heated lashing back and virtual stomping off. Still...

I know that I should be ashamed for my behaviour that night, but in all honesty, I'm not. I can't bring myself to be. I'm not sure yet how I feel about that, but now that the chaos in my life is starting to settle (or maybe I'm just juggling betting these days), I'll have some time to think about it.

What I do know is that NaNo is supposed to be fun. FUN. It's not some writer's rite of passage. It's not mandatory for publication. It's not even mandatory participation. It's voluntary, and it's supposed to be fun. It's about the companionship of getting together with local writers you didn't know existed. It's about meeting people. It's about sharing the experience.

Unfortunately, November is a REALLY bad month for me to try to add social activities AND extra word count to my calendar. It's hard enough trying to add just one of those to my calendar in the last three months of the year. My life starts exploding into flurries of chaos right around the middle of October every year and doesn't stop until mid-January. It's been like that for the past 20 years and this year was even worse.

I went into NaNo 2009 knowing that I needed to be done by the 21st, or at the very least be within 8k of being done by that day. Pure and simple. I HAD to be done by then in order to set up and cook for Thanksgiving. There would be no writing on the days immediately preceding Thanksgiving because I'd be shopping and cooking and generally preparing for the gathering of family. There was also my birthday to deal with and, thanks to my husband's travel plans in December, I had to jump on Christmas preparations before Thanksgiving even arrived. I had it all worked out. I started planning everything back in October.

What I didn't expect was that during the second week of November, my 91-year-old grandfather would be diagnosed with cancer (again) and told he had to start treatment right away because it was already so dangerously progressed. My mother couldn't take the time off from work to take him to the 32 daily radiation therapy sessions the doctor said my grandfather needed. My aunt (the one that lives with my grandparents) couldn't... wouldn't... whatever... do it. My other aunt lives in another city. There is no one else.

When presented with the options of letting the side of my 91-year-old grandfather's face and jaw be, literally, eaten by cancer or writing, it wasn't even a hard choice. There ARE some things more important than writing, and anyone that says otherwise is a damned fool.

My mom fought me on my choice at first. She said I shouldn't have to drive in to take him to the doctor. No, I shouldn't. But since no one else could or would, I would. And I do. Daily. Well, almost daily. Mom takes one day off a week and she takes him on those days, and she has vacation coming up.

It's a minimum 40 minute drive from my apartment to my grandfather's house. One way. In the morning, depending on the traffic and weather conditions, it's closer to 65 minutes. It's roughly an hour for my grandfather's appointment, including the travel time from his house to the radiation center and back. Most days it doesn't take quite that long. Some days it takes longer. Then I have the drive home.

That three hours or so I'm using to take my grandfather to get his face cooked is all of my allotted writing time in a day. And that's if... IF... I don't actually spend any time with my grandparents. If I just pick them up, go to the radiation center, then drop them back off at their house. If I actually spend any time with them, I pretty much don't get anything else done for the day. And, in all honesty, I have to say it's worth it, even on bad days when my grandmother can't remember what was said three minutes prior and is being verbally abusive and generally nasty to everyone around her. It won't be too much longer before she doesn't even know who I am or before they're both dead. Not many 40-year-olds can say they still have grandparents who are alive.

I also didn't expect my cousin's troubles to eat up more than a few hours of my time, and I'm not even directly involved in that chaos. Yet. The whole mess is still eating up my mother's weekends. And I can't even start thinking about what it will bring in the next 5 months or the 9 or so months after that. My head will explode.

I didn't expect a lot of the chaos that happened in November. Maybe I should have.

But then again, maybe not. I'm only human.

And, apparently, a pretty pathetic and useless one at that. Because I only wrote 11k and change this year for NaNoWriMo.

Awesome. Just... fucking awesome.

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3

Public responses to criticisms I've gotten lately.

Being up several hours before dawn was even a consideration, I wanted to spend some time working on Dream Weaver while everyone still slept and the world was still quiet. Things didn't work out that way, though. My brain got a little scrambledy while I was catching up on email over tea and cinnamon toast.

It wasn't too long ago that I got some rather hate-filled emails and comments on my blogs. At first, I thought everything was from one person, but after several weeks of consideration, I'm not so sure. A large portion of the hatred and anger aimed at me does seem to be the work of the same person, but there are certain messages that... well, they seem too logical and coherent and far less abusive to be from the woman I originally thought they were from. And that's had me thinking; maybe some of these issues need to be addressed by me.

One theme that several of the more coherent/less abusive communications had was that I'm a fraud. A phony. A fake. Why? Well, because the writer(s) had ferreted out that Rubi Jayne is not my given, married, or legal name. This was "discovered" after "alot of investigation".

I have... two... primary reactions to this topic. (1) "Why the hell is someone investigating me so bloody thoroughly??" and (2) "Well, duh, never said it was."

The first reaction is a defensive instinct that stems from having had bad experiences with people I've met on the internet who were more than just a little bat-shit crazy and who ended up with my home address and way too much information about/access to my kid. (Which, you know, also explains a fair amount of the "why do I use a pseudonym" question.)

The second reaction is, well, from the more smart-ass side of my personality. I mean, did these people read ANY of my Rubi Jayne bios/blurbs at all? My twitter bio reads:

I write erotica (maybe even a bit of erotic romance) under the name Rubi Jayne when I'm not doing mom things. Sometimes even when I am.

My bio/blurb most everywhere else reads:

Rubi Jayne is the provocative secret identity of a quiet wife and mother that writes steamy sex-filled stories. In the true nature of secret identities she has been honing her skills in private for almost a decade while pretending to plan the weekly menu or balance the household budget.

The woman sometimes known as Rubi Jayne lives in Florida with her husband, child, and two cats. She enjoys making chain maille, taking pictures, doing jigsaw puzzles, and confusing people when she's not writing or cleaning up after her family. She's also convinced that if she weren't married, she would be a secret agent having all sorts of exotic adventures and wild sex all over the world.

Gee, ya think somebody might be using a pseudonym?

Unlike a lot of writers that use pseudonyms for whatever reason they have, I'm admitting it right up front. In fact, I admit that I use two. I write erotic romance, romance, and pure erotica under Rubi Jayne. Anything associated with the Rubi Jayne persona/name is some shade of pink. I write fantasy, action/thrillers, and young adult under another name. Anything associated with that name is some shade of blue. It makes it simple for my daughter: anything that's pink, she isn't allowed to read until she's 18; anything in blue, she's allowed to read now. It also makes it easy to step away from more adult genres when I need to.

I take precautions to guard my real identity, and probably will for at least another six years. After that, who knows. And in case you're wondering "why six years?", that's when my child turns eighteen.

Another theme that was present focused on my lack of regular updating, whether it be on twitter or on my blogs.

Ok, so I suck at blogging. I've blogged about how much I suck at blogging. Truth is, I just don't have a lot to say that anyone would want to hear/read. I'm not an expert on writing. I'm not an expert on socializing. I'm not an expert on anything. I don't maintain my personal life blog any better than I do my writing blogs. I mean, really, who wants to see my weekly menu or read about how my cat puked in my husband's shoe or anything else from my very normal, very mundane life?

As for twitter, well, I take days off. If I'm not at my computer, chances are I'm not going to be updating too much, if at all. If I'm deeply engrossed in what I'm writing, my twitter feed will be very quiet. Then there are times when I just have nothing to say and enjoy watching what everyone else is doing/saying. Or maybe I'm engaged in one of my other interests.

Which brings me to something else that was brought up to me recently: the amount of time I spend writing, or rather, the amount of time I don't spend writing or "networking" on the internet. It seems that my taking weekends and various days/nights "off" to spend with my only child and husband (and, on occasion, extended members of my family)... offends... some people. Or maybe it's just that I'm open about it. I don't know. Anyway, the predominant line of thinking, from what I've gathered and been told, is that I'm not a "real writer" because I choose to spend some days not writing or editing and, in fact, don't think about writing at all. I'll "never be successful" because I'm not "interacting with [my] fans" on a daily basis. ( o.O I have fans? Really?!) I really have to bite my tongue on this one because what I want to say isn't polite. In fact, it's downright rude. But then, a little voice in the back of my head reminds me, so is telling me that I'm not a real writer and will never be successful because I put my family ahead of my writing.

Yes, I complain about my family eating up a lot of my writing time, but they're still in the process of learning that mom (that's me) needs personal time and time to do things she wants. I have dedicated and devoted my life to them for years. I gave up a promising career when my child was born so I could stay at home to raise her. I took temporary jobs whenever finances dictated and I happily gave them up once things stabilized, for the good of my family. I have, for more than a decade, neglected my advanced education... MY life... so that I could focus on taking care of my family. It was a choice that I made, and I have no regrets.

I know there are women out there that manage to hold jobs, take care of family, and have a personal social life all at the same time. I'm happy for them. I really am. More power to them. I'm not one of them. Me? I'm not Wonder Woman. First of all, I'm not that skinny. Secondly, I don't have those kick ass bullet-reflecting bracelets or that ever-so-cool Lasso of Truth. But in all seriousness, I'm not one of those women that wants to "have it all". Except for my constant computer usage and love of heavy metal music, I'm not so much a "modern woman". Oh, and AC. I love my air conditioner. And my freezer. And my jeans. But anyway, I made a choice to focus my full energy and attention on my family for a time. That's a choice I made, based on beliefs and values that I have, and because I (and my husband) believed it was the best thing for our family. Living in America, I have that freedom. I don't expect anyone else to understand, and I certainly don't judge anyone else for making the choices they've made.

It's only been in the last few years that my family has needed me less than they did before and, as my daughter grows older, I expect to have more time on my hands. It makes sense to me, then, that I start gradually doing more "me" things. I'm in the process of registering for college. I wander out once in a while and do whatever. And I write. But when my child is here and wants my company and/or attention, I still give it. Because pretty soon, my now-12-year-old daughter isn't going to want to curl up on the couch with me to cuddle and watch a movie. Before too much longer my baby will be exerting massive amounts of independence and asking to borrow my car. It won't be long at all before she's graduated high school and is moving out to be on her own. And the way I see it, these days are precious and I'll have time to spare in spades once she's moved out and no longer leaving messes all over my home.

But that's me.

So, yeah, guess what? Weekends? Chances are pretty high that you're not going to find me on the internet much. In fact, I can almost guarantee that three weekends out the month I won't be seen at all, with the exception of a few random thoughts I happen to remember to send to Twitter from my cell phone... if... IF... I happen to have my cell phone with me because, let's face it, I've stopped carrying my cell phone 24/7. Too many people have the number and think they can use it day and night to demand my near-constant attention no matter what I may be doing or who I'm with. Also? Trust me to be a bit snarlish if I get online after spending the day playing with my child and find an email complaining about how much time I'm NOT on the internet on the weekends and some weeknights. And believe me when I say that my child's orchestra competition/concert is more important to me than being online so that you can whine at me via the instant messaging service of your choice about how frustrated you are because you "only" wrote 5k words... per day... every day... for the last three weeks... and then have you criticize me and call me a "slacker" for "only" eking out 1,000 words for the entire month.

Yes, I AM a writer and, yes, I DO want to be published, but I don't have to do it by anyone's timetable but my own. And, right now, there are more important things to me than seeing anything I've written get published.

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I wrote the above very early yesterday morning and let it sit for, well, a full day and night. I got a little ranty towards the end (text messages before 9am on Sunday wanting to know why I'm not online already and if I'm ever going to bother showing up this weekend tend to piss me off, especially when we have had the same bloody conversation nearly every blessed Saturday and Sunday for months) and wanted to give myself some time to change my mind about what I'd said before I actually posted anything.

Turns out, I didn't want to change my mind.

Turns out, everything I said needs to be said... and I can only pray that I don't have to repeat myself for at least a year, because responding to the same issues and answering the same questions over and over and over and over again... from the exact same people? Not my idea of fun.

I shouldn't have to justify how much I did or didn't write and why to anyone except my agent, my editor, and my publisher. And I'm just not good enough for that. Yet. Since I have none of those people in my life right now, the only one that really needs to be concerned with the amount I write is, well, me. And, really? That's fine with me. For now. I'm still learning to write and someday, when I'm ready, I'll have those three people in my life and I'll be more focused on daily word/page count. And I will be published.

Someday.

When I'm ready.

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3