Junk in the Trunk

I have a rule:  If I've had it for more than a year without touching or needing it: toss it.

In life, stuff accumulates.  With children, stuff accumulates.  I've often found myself calling it junk, but in truth, most of it is not, by proper definition 'junky' (though to be honest I've accumulated enough of that as well).  I've tried to rewire my thinking and remind myself that it is stuff.

That being said, stuff, like junk, can accumulate quickly and leave a home feeling cluttered.  At moments like these, it helps to dejunk - get rid of the clutter.  Hence, the rule.  The key to the rule?  The one that makes it most effective - time.

The last few weeks I have been working on the novel I finished writing in May.  I haven't really touched it since than, and I'm realizing what a blessing that has been.  I'm approaching my project with fresh eyes and a clear perspective, and its much easier to recognize the 'junk', or the 'stuff' that I don't need.  The first night, I deleted 15, 000 words (don't worry, I have many a back up copy in case I change my mind - but I doubt I will).  My story suddenly feels less cluttered.

The key ingredient - time.  I shelved my project - I gave it space.

That isn't to say it was forgotten.  In fact, I've though quite extensively about it over the past four months, making notes, plotting possible revision ideas, talking with crit friends, reading books about the craft of writing.  And I've kept my writing muscle flexed by working on side projects - a couple of short stories I entered into contests, my NaNoWriMo plot for November.  All the while, my novel sizzled in the background.

Do you have junk in the trunk?  How do you know what to toss, and what to keep?

What Does Clarity In Writing Have To Do With Public Washrooms?

I learned a lesson this week on the value of clarity in writing.  I took my kids grocery shopping, and in usual form, the moment we were on the exact end of the store opposite the bathroom, my four-year old son, The Architect, had to use the facilities.

So we trudged with the cart load of food to the public washrooms.  Now The Architect has recently become 'morally' aware of the reason for separate bathrooms, and their connection between the differences in gender.  Therefore he no longer wants to enter the Women's room to do his business.  This is fine when my husband is with us.  However, in my opinion, he is still too little to go into the Men's room all by himself.  I just can't let him do it yet.  So through weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, I usually have to lay down martial law to get him into the bathroom I can actually enter with him.

This time, as I braced myself for the inevitable argument, The Architect noticed this sign on the washroom door, and said the following:

"Mom, look - this bathroom is for girls and old men!  I can use this bathroom!"

And that was it.  He was in, done and washed up before I could correct him, with a smile on his face.  He'd found a solution that worked for me, and for him.

What does this have to do with writing?

Simply this:  It is so important that we exercise clarity in our writing.  We cannot assume that our readers will understand what we are trying to say, just because we have a clear mental picture of the scene/plot point.  This is where critique groups can come in handy.  If your readers are saying "I don't get this..." and you have to stop and explain it, go back and give it some clarity.

Now as for my son, at some point I'm going to have to explain two things to him:

1.  What the symbol for disability means.

2.  He is not a little old man.

In the meantime, I'm going to use this lack of clarity to my advantage...