You give a hundred reasons why
and say you're really gonna try
I’ve been making monthly writing goals since April, and they’ve been working in a way that I’ve never been able to make goals (or resolutions) work. The secret, I think, is the reducing, the crossing out, the killing of goals (similar to “killing your darlings” in the editing process).
hosts a monthly goal-setting workshop, and what I’ve learned the most from it is to first write a list of every creative goal that comes to mind, and I mean everything and anything you can think of, and then…THE TOUGH PART…pick ONLY ONE. JUST ONE.The rest can wait. They really, really can. And that one you pick (JUST THE ONE) is doable. Print out a calendar page, use a digital calendar, the one on your phone, or a whiteboard in your office, kitchen, work space, and log your progress - even if it’s just x’ing out the days. Also, be OK with missing a day. One day, or even a few, does not end a goal.
Grace with yourself is vital. Perfectionism is a creative serial killer. There should be a million true crimes about Perfection.
So, what is my July Goal? The picture above of Clea DuVall, my inspiration for my novel-in-second-draft-process main character, Rae, is the visual representation of my goal. Finishing second-drafting/revising the first 10 chapters of Return To Neon is my goal - and then, in August, taking those 10 pages and workshopping them while working on the next 10 (not to jump ahead to August).
See that excitement and smile on Clea’s face? That’s my encouragement to do this. I’m going to print it out and hang it next to my monthly July goal calendar. I got this, and you got this, too - whatever goals you have for this July. I believe in you!!!
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Below is my reworked/revised second draft first page of Neon. A little teaser, I guess.
Chapter 1
Rae
June 1994
Rae grabs her black hoodie, shoves her arms in first, then pulls it over her head. Hard. It’s the middle of June in Los Angeles, midday. It should be summertime sun outside, instead of smog-colored clouds and temperatures low enough to warrant a hoodie. June Gloom, they call it. Whoever they are.
This can’t be real.
Mom flits through the apartment like an errant fruit fly, rambling about the next-door neighbor hitting on her again. She flips her bottle-dye red hair back and rolls her eyes as if she doesn’t love the attention. She’s been like this all morning, a non-stop chattering whirlwind who slows just enough to grab one of two packed suitcases, motioning to Rae to get the other. Rae kicks at it halfheartedly, not wanting to acknowledge the bags, much less pick one up.
It’s not like suitcases and moving is anything new. She and her mom have moved at least a dozen times, but not like this. It’s always been the two of them, “you and me against the world”, as Mom says, even if Mom usually brought along her newest and truest love, that is, until he got bored, leaving them as just two again.
But it’s never been like this. Just Rae. Alone.
There’s nothing Rae can do about it. She’s tried every beg, borrow, and steal approach, none of them garnering even a pause of consideration. Reluctantly, she grabs the last suitcase by its handle, mumbling curses to herself while following her mom out the front door. Rae never expected to feel sad about leaving this shitty, downstairs one bedroom with its algae coated swimming pool and puke green stucco walls.
Rae takes each step intentionally slow, waiting hopelessly for Mom to pull a face and say “just kidding”, or to wake up and realize it’s all just a dream. Can’t she go back inside and pretend none of this is happening? Curl up on the threadbare couch, watch TV, eat some Cool Ranch Doritos, and not get on a bus full of strangers to go off and meet more strangers?
