The New Ann Plan
It’s been a good year for the Brain Trust, a group of writers I meet with in person. We chat, brainstorm, commiserate, and egg each other on. We pick apart story structure of movies we’ve seen instead of rating them; I can admit in this crowd that I read eleven True Blood books in twenty days even though I profess no interest in paranormal stories. But we got a lot of writing done, tried some new things, got things submitted and accepted, and had a couple of NaNo winners.
This week the activity has been thinking concretely about goals for the year. We e-mail our list to the group and cheerlead. I like reading what the others are cooking up and how their year ebbs and flows—kids at home and university campus neighbor, I know that really the new year starts in August (you even get new supplies), but I’m willing to play along with the January people.
But I’m having a rocky week. Work? Argh! Family? I’d like to put the “diss” in “dysfunctional.” Writing plans? I’m quivering. But I’ve done this before, and I’m starting to see that I go through stages.
Grandiosity: This is the year, baby! I’ve got this nailed! I will draft that FBI trilogy and a screenplay and I’ll sell a TV pilot! You can hardly tell I’m not thirty! Letterman, save me a chair!
Around this time the Christmas candy runs out.
Despair: Oh. My. God. I can’t even get the dishes washed in the same day that we eat off them. I’ll be lucky to finish a poem—no, a haiku. No, wait, don’t they have rules about lines or something? A free-verse tweet. Nobody wants to read any of this claptrap. I need glasses. I need a haircut. I need to spend my time looking for a real job. I’m going to put on all my fleece clothing and go back to bed.
Resignation: I’ll just keep slogging along . . . like I’ve been doing. It’s not glamorous, or fast, but I’m chipping away. Make the list, roll up the sleeves–and Facebook games are the Devil’s spawn.
A whiff of excitement creeps in: Some of this stuff is lame, but this one here is a pretty good idea. Yes, spring break never turns out to be Novel Writing Retreat Week, but I get inspired and get tons done in April. This is doable.
These next you might flicker through pretty fast. Recognize that feeling it doesn’t make it permanent.
Abandon the whole thing: This is crazy, I feel crazy, I’ve got things to do.
Paralysis: Where the heck do I start?
Research: With more background information, I’ll really be ready to launch this thing. In fact, here’s a whole stack of vital background info.
And finally . . .
Launch: Sitting down in front of a fresh piece of paper, a new notebook, a blank screen. Do you dip in a toe or dive?
I might be moving out of the resignation phase. Unlike my writing buddies, I’m having trouble making a numbered list. My main project is a revision, where the predicted timetable has been thrown out of whack as I realize that it needs a period of percolation before it gets another pass. My goal is to finish it (where “finish” means “get into readable shape”) rather than make myself frustrated missing more deadlines. So my other goal is to keep working, on other projects while this one rests. My plan this year is less about counting and more about process.
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