Slow Morning

It's one of those mornings. The past week has been busy, full of stress, unwanted tasks, and general blech. There's been good news and bad news, both of which are stressful. And I'm hung up on the fact I just used a form of the word 'stress' twice in a row, and my Inner Critic won't let it go. Watch me walk away from the now thrice-used word, waving farewell to my Inner Critic as she stands there, fists on hips, pouting and steaming from the ears, cartoonlike. Ha, I ignore you. I am too tired this morning, my mind too full of cobwebs to worry about a little thing like that.

Someone needs a hug.

Not that I should let my standards drop, I think, as the Critic pounces on that phrase (which I erased once before remembering I'm defiant this morning), crying, "Yeah, like your 'standards' are worth upholding, you hack!' Now that I've started writing something, the Critic has decided she's been neglecting me these past few weeks and is lighting into me something fierce.

That's okay. As I said, I have too much brain fog to really register a lot of the Critic's abuse just at the moment. I'm thinking of the cat on my wallpaper, of the phone calls (ugh) I have to make today, of the fact I've not gotten started on any articles like I've been planning to do for a long time.

Okay, now that's a downward spiral. I suppose I should end this ramble right here, in the hope that it's not a complete waste of time/bandwidth/pixels and that someone gets something out of it, even if that something is that I am a very odd duck.

Excerpts and Editing

Part of the process of writing involves sharing your work with others and requesting critiques. I've occasionally been given to put excerpts of my work in here for you to read. I'm my own worst critic (aren't we all?) and I often convince myself no one wants to read that drek until it's at least polished drek that shines in the sun. With less than three months until the CreateSpace deadline, I have a lot of work to do on my manuscript, The Rise of Umbra. That manuscript has been lying, mostly ignored, on my bedroom floor for the last month or so. Not a dignified position for a novel manuscript. Not the most respectful way to treat such a thing, either.

Yesterday's post never quite made it live, but in what I managed to write I mentioned that things have been a bit stressful for me lately, and I think I managed to soldier on these last few weeks only to be faced with cashing that stress check this week. That's one of several excuses I could give for my shameful treatment of my work. Poor manuscript, gathering dust on the floor, spiders walking across it, and it just lying there, its metallic binder clips winking in the sun as I pull the shades open. Yes, manuscript, I'll get to you. But only after the eighty-seven thousand kajillion other things that are more important.

And they honestly are important things I've placed ahead of my editing. In part I'm dragging my feet, because facing that editing and revision task is not something I'm looking forward to. It's like anything else, in writing or elsewhere: it seems scariest before I start it. I have gotten into it before and it has been scary, but also refreshing. Cutting most of an entire chapter out terrified me, but, as I mentioned when I did it, it was for the good of the book, and I think it was necessary. Drawing big 'X's across my pages with a highlighter was freeing in a way. But now that I've made the mess, I've got to go clean it up.

So, right, excerpts. I might be posting some of those in here. Some more. Aside from the couple I've posted previously. Yesterday I couldn't get going on my blog post, today I can't shut up. So look for those, or look away, perhaps, when they hit the screen. And I'll leave it at that.

The Mountain of Monday

I'm not sure what to write about today, but it's almost nine o'clock and I'd better get something written. I had a busy week last week and I ended it exhausted but determined to Get Things Done starting today. Last night there were loud, flashy thunderstorms which served to keep me from sleeping properly. I awoke with the memory of a dreamed conversation with my father: "Make sure you remember the address of the lot the house is on." I've been groggy all morning so far, even with tea.

My drive to Get Things Done seems to have faded, drummed out by August-like conditions this weekend and the rhythm of the rain overnight. But Buddha Cat is still looking up toward me. He is relentless and silently demanding, encouraging. So I guess I'd better get started.

I have, among non-writing-related tasks this week, what may amount to an inordinate amount of phone calling to do. It might be that the task looks bigger than it is from where I sit right now: trying to wake up, listening to the sounds of cars driving by on the wet road, drawing some spark from the cool air drifting in the window and the sounds of neighbourhood birds calling outside, feeling the weight of not enough sleep on my brain. I dislike spending long amounts of time on the phone. I have a headset to help me work in the background and prevent arm and ear weariness whilst on hold. But the calls are not something I'm looking forward to today. In fact, I suspect I'm going to drag the writing portion of my morning out to forestall the inevitable slog, the questions and statements and explanations repeated over and over to each new person on the phone who doesn't know I've just told this exact thing to five other people this morning, so forgive me if I'm a little short.

I finally have what I need to continue my work for my business client, too. I've gotten out of the habit of doing that work, so there's another thing to get worked into the day. The paperwork sits, waiting to be assessed and tabulated, in plastic grocery bags on my study floor.

On Friday I was so motivated, feeling so accomplished, ready to take on my obligations head-on. It was a great feeling. True to form, though, it's Monday and weariness and the desire to do things other than what needs done are pulling at me. "Ooh, what's in the email?" my monkey mind asks. "Did you feed the cat?" the Judge demands, narrowing his imagined eyes at me. "Can't we just lay down for a few minutes?" whines the part of me where the tiredness lives.

The email can wait. The cat is fed: if she were hungry she'd come scratching at my door. And no, we can't lay down. There's things to be done today, and they won't do themselves. I'm gonna be busy today. I'll see you all later.

In Which I Try To Find A Topic

It's a late morning, my tea is now gone and I don't know what to write about. It appears I owe at least one blog post for this week, though, so here I am. I haven't quite completed (read: actually started on) my topics list for the blog, so I frequently find myself sitting here staring at the screen, the wall, out the window, or grabbing one of my writing books, like Lawrence Block's "Telling Lies For Fun & Profit" and flipping through it for five, ten, fifteen minutes, ending up no closer to a topic for today than when I'd started.

I suppose the lack of ability to find a decent topic is as good a topic as any, given that this is a writing blog. At the risk of writing something so achingly boring and unreadable as to drive my readers away, I will attempt to write about this topic.

I've written about the fear and frustration of facing the blank page. I've written about procrastination. I've written about Monkey Mind. I seem to have a mix of them today. I'm tired and I keep meandering off to look at my email or ponder my previous posts here or worry about having a backup copy of my blog. All instead of writing in here. And now it's getting on to lunchtime and I'm still feeling pretty empty of content.

All this stuff usually gets pushed aside once I get going, but I'm having trouble hitting that mark today. I keep thinking of things I'd rather be doing than sitting here typing out a so-called blog entry for today. A blog entry, says my eager Critic, that has no substance and is useless and dumb and why don't I just save the file as daily writing blah and give the blog a miss for today?

Well, Critic, whether or not this post is full of blah or awesome, I missed a post yesterday and I'll be making up Video Thursday tomorrow (presuming I can find something good to post for that!), and whether or not I've actually got readers who are reading this blog and wondering where my posts have gone, I feel like I need to post something. Could be this is the boringest post evar. Probably. But it's early days, as for the life of this blog, and I feel it safe enough to have an occasional 'whut?' post.

I've reached four hundred words, which is generally my minimum length for a blog post here. I don't want to spam people, but I want there to be enough that my readers feel like they've actually read something.

And hey, readers? Hate to beg for interaction, here, but I'd love to hear from you guys. Post a comment, vote in the little silly poll I stuck up, click a rating at the end of a post, email me directly if you like. I've had a couple emails from irregular readers and those who read mostly via RSS feed, but I'd like to know if I'm talking to myself here. Thanks.

Crossed the five hundred mark, so it must be time to meander off to something else. This week's been a bit of a bear; next week will be a better blogging week, I'm certain. Until next time.

Jack Heffron's 'Enemies of Creativity': The Talker

A few years ago I started a story that I filenamed 'Bing Bong'. It was about a woman who finds in her basement a strange object that turns out to be some kind of alien artifact or something. It inadvertently wreaks havoc in her life by 'helping' her: tidying her papers (and destroying the 'strata system' pseudo-organisational system she uses), washing her dog (and nearly killing it), etc.

When I first started writing it, this was a shiny new story idea with potential. I had scrawled down some disasters to happen and wrote out a few hundred words setting up the character and the dog.

Then I got involved with what Jack Heffron calls 'The Talker'. It's a personification of the need some writers have to talk about their ongoing works. My Talker can talk to anyone, even me, about my work. The Talker was largely responsible for this embryonic story's loss of that sparkle, that shine of inspiration.

The Talker needs attention. The Talker needs validation. The Talker would rather talk about an idea than confront its complexities, its obstacles. The Talker wants the glory but none of the hard work that really lies at the heart of all creative efforts. - The Writer's Idea Book - Jack Heffron

And it's for this reason that I need to catch my Talker before she gets going and put some duct tape over her mouth. The trouble is, I get use out of talking about my stories sometimes. The trick is to balance output with input, I suppose. It should be okay for me to talk about a story a little bit, but not go on and on until I'm talked out about it and it falls flat.

The Talker is particularly dangerous during NaNoWriMo, but, to me, equally as helpful. This year I talked my story to myself when I was stuck during the first couple weeks, and stumbled into new and interesting events, discovered amazing background secrets. I had a fascinating 'a-HA!' moment while pacing around my kitchen, to the bemusement of my cat, talking about these chitinous, insectoid aliens and how their race had gotten so messed up, really. It allowed me to continue with my story. I stopped The Talker before she got carried away and sat back down to write about what I'd discovered.