Grind away, people, ’cause we got an extra day to play this year.
And it’s here. Time to celebrate!
For the majority of us, there is no celebration. There is only the grind. We all have it: we pretty much get up and do the same thing over and over.
Or, if you’re like me, you twist and turn in your bed for 30 minutes before you get up, 30 minutes before the alarm is suppose to go off, you make your coffee, start your computer, and begin your day. The day that’s like every other day.
Though there are moments . . . we have small moments that seem to transcend the grind that is our life. Mine usually come in the form of small conversations that I have from time-to-time on the Internet, which is where I spend all my time. Oh, yeah: were it not for the internet I wouldn’t have a life. Trust me on that.
Maybe that’s why the scene I wrote last night, the second half of Chapter 40 of Transporting, felt different for me. It wasn’t anything heavy; in fact, it was suppose to be something of a bitch session between one of the main characters and a secondary character who has grown close to the main character in question. The girlfriend of the first character has gone away for a while, and the first character is feeling hurt and lonely. The second character is like, “Screw this, then. Your girlfriend will be back in time. Meanwhile, let go do something. Stop your moping and start having some fun.”
Wasn’t my intention to take the story in that direction. In fact, when I started thinking about this scene like, oh, twenty years ago, it was never suppose to be this way. The original incarnation had the main character showing up where the secondary character was more or less working–the secondary character is a graduate student working at an observatory–and pretty much convincing the student/friend that she should throw off her crap and come have some fun.
Strange that it didn’t happen that way. Or is it?
I was sort of struggling with the story last night, trying to get the right mood and feeling and words. I knew where the main character’s feelings were coming from: they were pretty much my own. Girlfriend is off, I’m lonely, boo-frackin’-hoo, feel sorry for me. And the wise friend who really does know me better was telling me, “Just enjoy your life now, loser. Stop being such a mope.”
Yeah, I knew where that was coming from. The Muse . . . she be kicking my butt again.
The one thing I am happy about is that the novel I’ve been sitting on for so long, the one I didn’t think I’d ever finish, is getting closer to an end. As of last night I’ve added about 10,000 words to the story, and there’s maybe another 25,000 to go.
Last year at this time I couldn’t have even thought about it. Then I met the Muse, and everything changed. The Muse was like my student in the story; they told me to get off my butt and do something.
A year later, I’m still doing that something.
Does that count for anything? I’m sure the Muse thinks so . . .