This is the progress I have made on my novel:

* 211 double spaced pages
* 68,284 words
* About 50 pages edited for content and style
* An additional 30 pages that have undergone only a style edit

And with the exception of a handful of those final 30 pages, none of that was accomplished since summer began. Most of the development was made last summer during regular stolen hours after work where I chained myself to the keyboard, hammering out strict word count goals under harsh quality standards. And it is no small accomplishment; I’m very proud of what I’ve done to an extent.

But even in terms of the story alone, the novel is only about half done. That doesn’t take into account time required for editing and rewriting. I had counted on this summer to be at least equally productive as last summer, if not more so. But now that the rhythm of the season has begun to settle into place, I’m becoming worried about the feasibility of that goal. Though I am ostensibly working fewer hours than last summer, the schedule is more variable, robbing me of that precious regularity that so aided my writing a year ago. Additionally, there are more distractions this time around. I am living with and around my closest friends, and there is always something (else) to do.

I’m hoping (foolishly!) that motivation will suddenly strike. The problem is that I’m just tired. I’m working around 32 hours each week, and I haven’t yet had a “day off” that I didn’t spend moving furniture. Maybe once the novelty of living here without school wears off, and I take a short break, I’ll be able to force myself into getting some work done, adopt some pattern. Because there is no other way to get this thing written than to simply write it. Thinking about it doesn’t help. Anyone who has ever written knows that The Muse strikes during the process, not before, and that writing is tedious, demanding labor that requires a sort of blue-collar work ethic and seldom rewards.

It will be difficult. I’ve already done so much, and I feel so tired of the story sometimes, particularly when I think about how much there is left to do. It’s a good premise, and certain selections of the prose are stunning. But there are major problems with the plot and pacing that from time to time seem insurmountable.

Sometimes when I think about this thing I feel pretty ridiculous. A novel? Who the fuck am I kidding?

We have reached, now, the penultimate week in the semester, and I'm not sure where all that time went. And to preempt your suggestions, I've already checked between the seat cushions and behind the fridge. These last precious days will pass in flurry as well, I know. Dead Week is anything but, and Finals Week is always (for me) an odd combination of boredom and a mad scurry to prepare. I'm just hoping that this weekend will bring with it some memorable... well, memories upon which to rest the burden and frame the context of the first semester of my junior year.

And it's been a great semester. I don't post much here anymore, so I feel like I'm catching you all up on the last four months, but I've enjoyed (most of) my classes, had a whole lot of fun, and grown as a person in meaningful ways. Much of that growth, though, I guess can't share here anyway, as it takes place behind a dark University Ministry curtain where I carry out my secret duties working on student retreat(s).

It may be that because this was such a watershed semester for me that my feelings for winter break are so unresolved. This Thanksgiving was the first time that I had looked forward to coming back here more than I did to going home in the first place. Spokane has grown on me. It took three years, but I've come to really like it here, against my will, against my reason, and (yes) even against my character ([link]). If Vegas has so worn on me and Spokane so endeared itself to me that I wanted to come back after only five days... what will the next month be like?

I think I just need to get into the Christmas spirit a little more. No doubt as soon as I get home, see the decorations up, and treat myself to a little choice Holiday Entertainment ([link]), I'll be happy to be home with my family.

You know, I was thinking a little more about why this semester has been so good to/for me. By the senior year of High School I was very self-actualized in reference to my ideal self-image. But as college quickly shed that self-conception and the ideals and values that I had been towing along with me [ref: this post ([link])]. The result was a great deal of struggle as I tried to redefine myself while coming to terms with my social issues. But I think I've begun to self-actualize again within my new self-conception.

Anyway. Lates, home skillets!

Last week the backlight on my (ex)laptop burned and blinked out, sending it sailing away into that Big Best Buy In The Sky, and until yesterday afternoon, when a new laptop came, I've been reduced to scraping together my technological fix in stolen hours at the library, quick, dark minutes on my iPod and secret rendevouz with friends' computers while their owners were away. And now I appreciate how much I need my own computer--or at least how much I rely on it for research, entertainment, relaxation... the very idea of being able to write a paper at my own convenience is a practice that I had never before identified as a luxury. The new laptop is dern fancy, too. Got a biometrics fingerprint scanner thing and everything.

And I have a Sinus Infection. I volunteer at an organization called Earthbound, where we educate children about positive environmental practices. But today I had a headache so severe that I had to skip. It was a sensation on the side of my head like a vice squeezing the sides of a peach, while simultaneously my face felt as though it had lost a fight with a vindictive meat tenderizer. So I went down to the Health Center and got me a tasty cocktail of Antibiotics, pain relievers, and Mucinex.

I liked Across the Universe, by the way. Saw it twice, even. I understand why people hate it, but I thought it was wonderful. I recommend it. At least give the soundtrack a listen.

Anyway, auf Wiedersehen everyone.

I wasn’t sure that I was going to do this, but,

THOUGHTS ON HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS

SPOILERS

Despite my romantic post early last week, I had actually prepared myself for a less-than-stellar final installment of the series. I knew that our heroes—and thus the reader—would not return to Hogwarts, at least not in the normal sense, and though Rowling’s gift for dialogue is absolutely staggering, she is not particularly adept at pure prose-laden action. (I think that the Ministry scenes in Order, which feel confusing, poorly-set, and rushed, illustrate this weakness.) I am not one of those people who suggests that she is a “bad” writer. In fact, I believe quite the opposite, but all writers have their limitations, and I was not particularly hopeful about a book which must, by necessity, rely on the type of writing which I have seen her struggle with the most.

And yet I loved the book!

I should have known that I would--I who has love each book, even that black sheep The Half-Blood Prince, the embarrassing cousin of the family. Was Hallows rushed at times? Certainly, but rarely as badly as I had secretly feared. Were the deaths less resonant than those in the other books? Well, obviously. The last three books had each ended with a single death at the moment of climax. Hallows chronicles a war in which characters die left and right and, as in a war, there is little time for mourning. The sheer numbers are numbing. I do not know if she intended this sort of effect, but this reader, in any case, was not put-off by the seemingly over-abundance of death. In fact, I felt quite touched at Dobby’s demise, as well as—to a lesser degree--Fred’s.

The only deaths that may have been unnecessary were those of Tonks and Lupin. Although… the parallelism between Harry’s new role as Godfather to the parentless Ted Lupin and Sirius’ role as Godfather to Harry are nearly too delicious to pass up.

There are so many moments to love in the book, but I can’t bring myself to talk about them. Talking about Harry Potter through any lens but one relatively distant and critical will always be difficult for me. It is the same with The Once and Future King, which is my very favorite book. I love these stories in such a personal way that the idea of discussing them with someone is… is almost too intimate for me. Partly, I’m sure, I’m afraid to encounter someone who holds these books in contempt, who views them with derision. But I am also loathe to hear myself struggle with the words to express how I feel about the stories. I can’t stand to hear myself squawk and caw at someone in a desperate attempt to explain something which I understand so well beyond the limitations of my vocabulary. So I guard my passions close, and I keep them secret and safe.

I will say that I was somewhat disappointed with the epilogue. The names of the children were confusing and, ultimately, unimportant and unmoving for me--Albus Severus Potter aside. I do not ask for much. I would have just liked some sort of mention of Harry’s struggle to live normal life after the events of the books, something to place even the thinnest crack in the idealism. The novels have been about the struggle to find love in an imperfect and dangerous world, and I was, perhaps, somewhat disappointed to find the endings so idyllic. Still, what I would have liked even more was some information on the heroes themselves rather than their children. Where do they live? What are their houses and lives like now? What do they do for a living? I was so certain that we would find either Harry or Hermione at Hogwarts in the epilogue—Harry as a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, or Hermione as the youngest ever Headmistresses.

But these are minor complaints. I was happy with the novel, and closing the final cover brought with it an interesting sensation. I realized how real these characters had become to me. I had the strongest urges to kiss Ginny, to hug Hermione, to relax and chat with Ron and Harry in a chintzy chair against the Gryffindor fireplace. It is an experience that has only happened to me once before, (after reading The World According to Garp by that master of character development John Irving)… I felt like I had known the heroes of J.K. Rowling’s saga. That I had really known them…

I peer over towards my bookcase at the colorful spines, and I do not remember the characters of a novel, do not even remember the terrible events which befell them. I think of old friends, of people who I had actually known, who I had lived and grown with. Our relationship is forever changed, but I am sure that, whenever times are rough and this world becomes cold and indifferent, there will always be a place for my at Hogwarts, a chair in that Gryffindor commonroom

And I will always be welcomed warmly by a cast of my greatest friends.

My new favorite commerical?

This one: ---> [link]