It’s early afternoon, and I can’t believe I’m getting to my writing now. Usually by this time I’ve had my saying of the day saved to the Internets, and I’m kicked back with lunch and/or some other insanity. Today I’m running late because–why not? Due to having to get out and pick up a few things? Because of an annoying ? On account of pedantic discussion on Star Trek? Or maybe . . . bacon?
Only time will tell. Or not, ’cause timey whimy, you know?
In thousand words leaps Fantasies in Harmonie moves forward. It was only suppose to be some quickie porn that I’d rip out and post in no time: instead, it’s become of War and Peace of fetish fiction. She now sits just short of sixteen thousand words, and in another fifteen hundred I’ll have to get out my passport and entered the Country of Novella, and I hear the greasy chuckle from here.
If you wonder what I’m talking about, read the afterword to Stephen King’s Different Seasons collection, where three of the four included stories have become some of King’s best adapted movie. One of the lines he uses is, “Now, artistically speaking, there’s nothing at all wrong with the novella. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with circus freaks, except that you rarely see them outside of the circus.” You get the point.
At the time King wrote those words (1982 or there about), finding a market for novellas was damn near impossible. There were only a hand full of magazines that would tackle those stories, and by the end of the 1980′s they pretty much went the way of the dinosaur. Or did they? Just wait . . .
So rather than eight thousand words of hotness, I’m more like double that pleasure, and it’s likely I’ll start tripping into the twenty thousand lane before everything is over. Been there, done that: in fact, some fetish fiction I sold a couple of years back went the same way. They were fantasy stories that ended up being long novelettes or short novellas, and after four of them I stopped because, at the time, I figured no one was ever going to read them outside of a few people who were into that sort of thing.
Now, about that place to publish . . .
So many publishing outlets dried up in the late Twentieth Century, but fast forward to the end of the first decade of the Twenty-first Century, and one sees self publishing taking off. I remember people saying, “I ain’t buying one of those new fangled ebooks–only the real thing for me!” and emotions ran pretty high on both sides–but I knew that tech is one of those things that tend to stick around if they’re good, and ebooks were good. I even bought one, and though I don’t use it much these days–I need a new battery–there are enormous advantages to having one–
Liking being able to take your kid to their soccer meet and sit in the stands reading Daddy’s Little Milk Maid and not worry in the least that you’re going to skev out everyone sitting around you.
It was Penn Jillette who pointed out that all new technology leads to porn. After the Gutenberg Bible came a printing of the Karma Sutra; after the first movies came Le Coucher de la Mariée, a seven minute movie of a women doing a strip tease in a bathhouse, filmed in 1896, followed by El Sartorio, the first film to show sex acts, filmed in Argentina in 1907. We have the Internet and . . . you really need to know?
With ebooks came eporn, and big or small, it sells.
Will my fantasy story sell. Only time will tell. Or not–
There has been a lot of playing around the last couple of days, and some yelling on the phone as well. Why would one be yelling on the phone? Because there’s someone on the other end who isn’t listening, that’s why. That’s all short-term nonsense, however, and I expect things to go back to some semblance of normal by the end of the week.
Or a black hole will open and suck me into another dimension. Anything’s possible at this point.
There’s been a lot of thinking going on between writing. Most of said thinking isn’t about the new story, because I know what’s happening with that, and since I’ve mind mapped the story and I know the ending, all that is required is getting the middle parts written. I’m into the sexy bits now, and while I’m only doing a thousand words a night, it’s fun getting into that stuff. Right now I don’t feel like doing more than a thousand a day, but the end is already in my head, and I’m guessing that the totally erotic stuff happening now is going to be good for another three, four thousand words.
There’s the nagging feeling that I want to get into another story, a different story, soon. I know I want to edit Replacements so I can get it ready for publishing, because the writing’s complete, it only needs a cover and some polishing and then it’s off to be self-published for fame and glory. Sure, that’s why I’m a starving artist, don’t you know?
Beyond that–well, I’m thinking of getting Couples Dance out and starting the work on that as well. Despite my emails I’ve heard nothing from the publisher that wanted a look at the manuscript, and I have to guess they’re either not interested, or they’ve went belly up. Now that story, it’s a strange one. If I can get that published alongside Replacements and Her Demonic Majesty, that’s three out of the four titles I set as a goal for this year, and it means there is still the possibility I can make Number Four happen before the end of the year.
There is the feeling, though–I want to do something science fictiony again. Yes, I have science fiction stories that I could either write or edit for publishing, but I want to get back out into space. I want to do something that is adventurous. I don’t know why I’ve had this feeling kicking me about the back of my mind of late, but when I’m looking at the desktop of my computer I see my 3D rendering programs, and I want to get into one and start playing about with ship designs and the such.
I want to jump back into the sci fi game. I want to do something that’s fun–maybe a bit of space opera wrapped up in some seriousness. I want to do it and keep it “short” and see if it touches my mind. I even have a character that would be perfect for this sort of story–
Maybe it’s time to pull her out and give her a run at the readers.
Some days it is difficult, if not impossible, to stay positive about the work one does. Try as one might, there are a multitude of things throughout one’s life that keep the daily struggle fresh.
Writers suffer from doubts–well, most do. There are probably a few who sit at the computer and crank out a few hundred words, then sit back and go, “Yeah, fantastic work, I’ve got a best sell a-brewin’.” For the rest of us who craft words into sentences, and then into stories, there have been more than a few moments where we look at a computer screen, or a piece of paper, and think, “Damn, this is total shit. Why am I doing this again?”
I get this a lot, and I’ve talked about it more than a few times. I’ve spoken with other writers I know, and they get into the same funks as well. I even had one person tell me the other night they were looking at a story and the thoughts they had were, “This is shit. I should give up.”
For the last month or so, during the lead up of the self-publication of Her Demonic Majesty, I was hit with all sorts of doubts. Am I doing this right? Am I doing that right? Should I even put this sucker out? There was a point where I was going to give up and just keep the story in the bin and submit it to a few more houses just to see if I’d get a nibble or two.
This morning, as I was laying in bed thinking about the bad dreams I’d had, I also wondered about my sense of doubt as a writer. I thought about my current story, Fantasies in Harmonie, and Her Demonic Majesty, and wondered why I bother to write. Then I got out of bed, my head fuzzy from the medication I took last night. It was while I was walking from the bedroom to the computer room that I understood something:
It’s okay to think you suck. Because that is the natural order of things for those who care.
There are all sorts of reasons why I get down on myself about my work. It’s a struggle to get noticed, and I want so much so fast these days. The struggle is getting old, as am I, and I want to move on. Hell, that’s my life these days: keep moving forward and build a new life for yourself, girl. Story of my life, let me tell you.
But without the struggle, there isn’t a need to grow. I’ve been there as well. I spent thirteen years with one company and fell into the trap of not wanting to move on and do other things because the place was comfortable, it was, as I thought then, secure. So I didn’t need to feel differently, I didn’t need to learn anything, I didn’t need to write.
In the end it was, as we say in the software biz, vaporware. A lot of things were promised, and nothing was delivered.
It’s okay to doubt, because if you know you’re good, you’re going to doubt your skills. You’re going to agonize over what you created. You’re going to find yourself thinking, “This isn’t worth my time, I could be making blue glass like Mr. Heisenberg”–only you won’t because Mr. Heisenberg is a fictional character, your chemistry skills suck, and in the end you’ll blow up that fancy Jasper Country double-wide you use as a crash pad and meth lab.
Then again, at least you know your customers, which is more than I can say . . .
Over the weekend I conducted an interview–a rather strange one, at that. But then, I like strange. I hope you like reading this as much as I liked doing it.
Remember: strange.
(Location: New Oxford, University, Hyades Star Cluster. 2 June, a little more than 20 Minutes Into the Future.)
Greetings, young and eager minds of New Oxford and Miskatonic Universities. Welcome to another addition of Author’s Profile—or as I like to called it, “Audrey’s Excuse For Eating Up Web Time.” As you can see I’ve brought along the noted historian and local stuffy peer, the Duchess Scoth, the Lady Cytheria . . . That special personal I call “Sweetie”. Say hello, Sweetie.
*Glares at Audrey* Hello, everyone. To my students out there, please do ignore Audrey’s excessive rambling this day: I’m afraid she’s had a tad too much coffee.
It’s only too much if you start vomiting and get the shakes, my dear.
I believe you had both—
*Snorts* Well, then, lets move on. Today we have a special treat. We’re speaking with a new authors who’s sort of . . . It’s a bit confusing, but if you’ve been paying attention in class you’ll know what I mean. So, joining us now on the hyperwire, we have—
*Whispering* Did you clear this with—you know.
*Audrey speaking out of the corner of her mouth* On’tday alktay aboutway ethay imetay aveltray, neh?
*Cytheria sits back in her chair, shaking her head*
(Audrey) If you will please welcome, coming to us live from her home, the one, the lovely, Cassidy Frazee.
(Cassidy) Thank you, Audrey, for that warm welcome. Did you say “Miskatonic University”?
(Audrey) I think you mis-heard me.
(Ca) Ah. Okay, then . . . Thank you for having me, then.
(A) Yo have a new novel out, Her Demonic Majesty. It came out, what? A couple of weeks ago?
(Ca) Yeah, times flies, you know? Feels like yesterday.
(A) *Turns to Cytheria* If she only knew . . .
(Cytheria) *Ignores Audrey* Congratulation, Cassidy. It’s my understanding your endeavor to publish this novel has taken some time.
(Ca) Yes, that’s true. I’ve been working on this novel for a year and a half.
(A) Tell us what you’ve done during that time, if you would.
(Ca) As anyone who’s followed my blog since 2011—
(Cy) Blog?
(A) You remember, Sweetie? People write and then post their scribblings on the . . . “Internet”? *winking* Yeah?
(Cy) Oh, of course. Silly me. *Nervous laugh* Go on, Cassidy.
(Ca) Sure. I’ve been blogging since the middle of 2011, and it was in November of that year that I decided—well, was sort of talked into—writing something during NaNoWriMo—
(A) The National Novel Writing Month?
(Ca) Yes, that. I’d been asked to do it the year before, but bailed because—well, a lot of things, really. Mostly personal things, like just not being able to write due to depression.
(Cy) Audrey can certainly empathize with you there.
(Ca) Oh? You get that, too?
(A) *Mumbling* More times than I care to like. Tell us about the experience.
(Ca) It’s all about getting it written and edited. I wrote the first draft in twenty-five days, then edited it three times before handing it off to another person so they could give it a good cleaning. Even after that I found a few typos and cleaned them up—
(Cy) Not uncommon for any published work.
(Ca) So I’ve been told. Then it was setting up account, getting covers made, getting everything formatted . . . When you’re self publishing, there’s a lot of work involved in getting your story in a shape that makes it worth putting it out there for others to read.
(A) I know. I’ve been through my copy of your novel a couple of times, and you did a great job with the layout. Very professional.
(Ca) Thank you for buying it.
(A) *Sets hard copy down* Yes, buying it . . . Tell me, how do you go about promoting a novel?
(Ca) That, too, is an interesting process. You have people put out good word of mouth for the book. You set up a writer’s page and trying to get the message out to as many people as possible. You ask people to give you reviews and to spread the word. You listen when you have a mistake and fix things as quickly as possible. It’s a huge amount of hustle, and it wears you out.
(A) You write in a few genres: science fiction, fantasy, horror, erotica. How do you classify Her Demonic Majesty? It seems like it should be fantasy, but it’s . . . not.
(Ca) I like to call it my science fiction fantasy with touches of steampunk. I think this particular novel covers so many bases that it’s nearly impossible to pin to one genre. I want to write stories; I don’t want to think I have to write any particular kind of stories.
(A) You were always critical of genres, and it seems—
(Ca) *Confused* “Were”?
(Cy) Audrey tends to have problems with her tenses— *Glances to Audrey and smiles* Isn’t that right, my love?
(Ca) *Muttering* Wibbly wobbly . . . After reading the novel I wondered if there will be any sequels. Any chance?
(Ca) *Smiling* One never knows. Lets just say that I know what happens to the characters in the story for a few years past the events in the novel, so maybe their will be other books. I’ve got so many stories I want to do—
(A) Science fiction? Fantasy? Erotic Japanese Tentacle Romances?
(Ca) What?
(Cy) I’ve heard writers say that it’s not unusual for segments of their personality to make it into their stories. Did that happen with you here, with this novel?
(Ca) Let me answer that second part first . . . With this novel I wouldn’t say much of my personality entered the novel say for some of the more geekish parts of Jeannette’s personality. I drew on my own experiences as a reader and a gamer to get an idea about the sort of things she might enjoy and do.
Beyond that, I don’t put too much of myself in my stories. Though there are a few stories, as yet unpublished, where more of “me” shines through than in other stories.
(Cy) You seem to write a great number of female characters. Any particular reason?
(Ca) I like writing women; it’s difficult to get them right, I think. I hope I’m doing a good job at presenting characters who can handle anything thrown at them, who don’t need to go running to the nearest guy screaming, “Please save me!”
And if they do work with men—as one of my characters has done in two stories—they work with them as equals. They know what they’re doing; they’re not afraid to speak their mind and follow up with their own lines of inquiry. And the men they work with aren’t threatened by a woman who knows as much, or more, than they.
(A) Sort of like Cytheria and me.
(Ca) That would be true if you were both like a couple of characters I developed. It’s strange, you know: Cytheria, you have the same name as—
(A) Fascinating! So, a couple of human interest question. First: boxers or briefs?
(Ca) Um . . . Boy shorts.
(A) Really?
(Cy) Audrey loves bikini bottoms. Never took her for that sort of girl.
(A) Silence, Sweetie. Fly or drive?
(Ca) Depends on the distance. I’ll fly to other parts of the world, but if it’s less than a thousand miles, I’ll drive.
(Cy) What’s the furthest you’ve flown?
(Ca) Around the world: Chicago to Minneapolis to Amsterdam to Hong Kong to Tokyo to Minneapolis to Chicago. Not all at once, mind you: it took about eight weeks. But Chicago to Hong Kong is probably the longest continuous trip with layovers of a few hours.
(A) Favorite writer?
(Ca) Too many to list. I love to read.
(A) Favorite movie?
(Ca) It’s impossible to have a favorite. Maybe twenty, thirty favorites. But one? No. For the record, quite a few from the 1950’s, 60’s, and 70’s.
(A) If you could be a tree, what would you be?
(Ca) Um . . . Kristian Stewart?
(A) Cheap shot!
(Ca) Who wants to be a tree?
(A) Poison Ivy?
(Ca) Point taken.
(Cy) Would you prefer to live in the past or the future?
(Ca) There’s something to say about growing up in the 60’s and 70’s, though if I had to go through that again, I’d rather do it with a few things changed . . . If I had a choice, I’d pick the future—maybe two or three hundred years from now. Nothing’s happening these days, and I’m bored. I’d like to see what’s coming down the time line.
(A) Some interesting things, let me tell you.
(Ca) And you know this how?
(A) *Long pause* That was the drugs talking . . .
(Cy) Pay no attention to her, Cassidy.
(Ca) Thank you—Duchess? Like in the song?
(Cy) No, a duchess is what I am.
(Ca) Do you know Albert? He’s a born loser.
(A) *Now glaring at Cassidy* On that note . . . I’d like to thank Cassidy for appearing today. It’s been a lot of fun speaking with you.
(Cy) I agree. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.
(Ca) Thank you both for having me.
(A) Oh, and August, 2015: if you’re smart you’ll cancel your trip to Boston.
(Cy) Audrey!
(Ca) I’m sorry—what?
(A) *Mumbling* See who’s the loser now! *Turning to the virtual audience* That’s it for today! Join us next week when we interview Cleopatra and find out if she was bi, or just really horny. Bye!
Are you looking for Her Demonic Majesty? Look here!
The weather has cooled and isn’t as muggy as it was yesterday. I know that sounds a ridiculous thing to say, given the way weather has lost it’s mind of late–though it’s not something I haven’t seen coming for a while. But that’s a discussion for another time. Right now it’s cool outside, and it’s going to say this way for a few days. Cloudy, cool, rainy.
Perfect weather for writing.
I’m well into novelette territory now with Fantasies in Harmonie. After watching Iron Man 2 with my daughter last night, I hit the Scrivener bricks about ten PM and wrote for an hour. A thousand words later I found a good point to leave off until today, stared at the final word count, and proclaimed myself the worst smut writer in the world.
Lets define that, shall we? I don’t mean “worse” as in I can’t write. I can. I write good, as some might say. What I mean by “worse” is that this story is double the size of other stories I’ve seen, like The Boss, My Slut or Daddy’s Horny Step Daughter. Then again, I’m not writing those stories: I’m writing mine.
As one person told me, it’s gonna be a real story, not just get off sex. Though there’s nothing wrong with that.
What’s strange for me is my sleeping patterns these days. When I go to bed I’m usually thinking of some story that I want to write, and when I wake up I find myself going over a scene from the current work in progress–usually as I lay there gathering my strength and wits.
That happened this morning. I started coming awake in the dim light of this cloudy, gray morning, and here I have something bouncing around my head concerning one of my characters. Now, I don’t know if it’s something that would fit her for this current story, but it’s damn sure something that could work for her in another story. Yes, I think that way: I’m always figuring in another story angle for characters even when I’m working on their current story. (About the only one I haven’t done that with is Couples Dance because, damn . . .)
The images that assault me during that time–oh, my. It’s an interesting time, since I have these ideas and scenes and feelings that enrapture me while I lay there, eyes half-closed, taking it all in. Sometimes I feel like this is the best time for me to get my ideas in order, because things are coming at me fast and furiously, and I’ve had some of my best scenes hit me during the waking hours.
They can also be a little overwhelming at times, because my mind is wide open, and just about anything can happen during these moments. These things wash over me and I lay there and take it in and take it apart. I see what works and what doesn’t. I think about what I want to keep and use and what I want to discard–
For a moment I wondered if my computer was coming up this morning. You start having these fears when your machine is looking at its seventh birthday, and all your friends have gone through three or four machines by this time. If I’m lucky I’ll hang on this sucker for another year, then maybe get that super-tablet that I’ve had my eye on for years.
But I’m here, I’m up, and I have plans for the day. Writing, of course: I need to get back into my story, and there’s something special I want to work on as well. What is it? I’m not telling, at least not yet. Give it a day or two, but you’ll see it. Maybe you’ll even like it.
Speaking of the story . . . yeah, over the ten thousand mark. That’s me, Ms. Wordy Smut. It should just be sex and sex and sex, and kept it short and simple, but no: I gotta tell a story. Well, people liked my other long smut, so maybe I can get people to like this smutty smut, too. They might even want to give me a couple a bucks in the process.
I have a guy watching me because writing and swaying back and forth as I listen to David Bowie Live From the BBC, from back in 2000. Hope you enjoy the show, sucker, because maybe it gets better. Enjoy your yogurt and quit staring a hole in me, ‘kay? People, I swear.
I think I’ve finally reached some sort of point with Fantasies in Harmonie, where I feel like I have to write this now. I go through the strangest feelings about my works at time, and this has been one of them. Maybe it’s the writing late at night, maybe it’s finally using Scrivener in full screen mode–which I highly recommend–maybe it’s I’m finally kicking through this depression I’ve been in for the last month. Whatever it has been, when I’m writing I love writing. The distractions are becoming fewer, and I’m really getting into the scenes I’m creating. It could be due to the story finally taking off, so I crank through another ten thousand words, get to the end, and get a cover while I’m editing this sucker. Push it out, put it up, have it ready for the end of July so people can have a little excitement as they flow into fall. I aims to please.
There remains what comes next. It’s always about what comes next these days. Get into the wind and go with it, and don’t stop flying just because you found a place where you can relax for a bit and enjoy the sights. Somewhere down the jet stream you’re going to find something new and exciting, so finish up your thing and get wild with the wind, because if you’re good, if you’re right, you can keep flying the wind forever. Or at least until you get too old to fly.
Then what do you do?
Screw it. You keep flying. And tell the stories of when you touch down.
I am deliberately ripping off a song title today because I’ve been listening to Electric Light Orchestra for a couple of days, and I’m currently listening to a concert they performed in Osaka in 1978, and that particular song just finished. Which gave me the idea for what to write today, as well as the title. See? Inspiration comes from all sources. You just have to know when to grab it when it pops up.
The little story that I’ve been working on, Fantasies in Harmonie, isn’t so little any more. It was suppose to be quick and smutty, a nice piece of naughty erotica that would sell quickly and overtake all that other stuff on Smashwords and Amazon that pass for hot writing.
Alas, it’s no longer little. Two night ago I wrote a bit over twelve hundred words; last night I wrote just under twelve hundred words. That’s like a third of a short story right there, and it only covers one transformation and one scene of one of my characters sorta, kinda, actually playing with her lady bits. Twenty-four hundred words of fantasy and sexiness, for one person.
Oi. They should all be in bed together right now, and I’m sitting at ninety-seven hundred words with maybe another ten thousand to go? Some smut writer I am. I think Gore Vidal had the same problem, so I got that going for me.
The story continues, and I’m at least getting into the stuff that’s suppose to be in erotica, which is the sex. Then I push through that, then I finish up the story, and then . . .
Yeah, what then?
See, here’s the problem: I’m working on this story, and I’ve got like half a dozen things rolling about in my head at the same time. It’s likely one of the big distractions I’m having with Fantasies, because when I should be thinking about this story that was going to be written more as a lark than anything else, I’m thinking about what story I should edit next to prep for publication; I’m looking at Create Space so I can offer physical copies of my new novel, Her Demonic Majesty (available infine ebookversions everywhere); I’m thinking about stories that haven’t moved out of the world building stage–
It’s this last that’s really driving me nuts, because the characters are there, wanting to come out and be made whole, and I’m busy getting Dagny, Brittany, and Skyller all heated up so they can do some nasties and write about it later. (Writers: they’re all so damn kinky, doncha know?) Then when I have a break in the action–which is most of the day, actually–my mind wanders back to a place I’m calling Sigle, and before you know it I’m thinking about what I should do with certain characters, and what events will shape their lives–
I should really be thinking about mecha battles and the such, because that’s also a story I want to write.
What’s a girl to do? Well, writing would be a start . . .
Almost wide awake here, just like the blog. I’ve even been busy, as you may or may not be able to see. One of Google Searches that came to this blog the other day was “Cassidy in Gallifreyan,” and since I do have a Gallifreyan translator, I thought I’d help out that said person. So, Google Searcher, if you’re out there still, here you are: Cassidy as those pesky Gallifreyans might write it. Enjoy.
Normally I’m talking about my writing and my stories and the such right about now. I can’t do that today because I didn’t write last night. No, I actually watched TV. I know, bad girl. But it was worth while, because I was watching the original version of “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo,” the one made in Sweden with Noomi Rapace. I’ve heard about it but never seen it, and since it was on the Sundance Channel, I thought I should catch it. (The whole trilogy was on last night, but no way in hell was I staying up until 4:15 in the morning to watch all three movies.)
I’ve never been one for mysteries, so I’ve not enjoyed a lot of writing by a lot of authors. In reality I don’t have many friends who read them, but then, I don’t have many friend who read, period. I’ve never read The Millennium Trilogy, and probably won’t. But I wanted to see the movie, because–well, because I did. So I took the night off and watched and enjoyed, and didn’t feel the least bit guilty about not writing.
I do a strange thing, however. Since the movie is filmed in Sweden, there is a lot of scenery that I’ve never seen. There is the estate, and the island where the family lived, and there was one shot of a bridge that I’d love to find on a map. I want to find these places on a map and imagine I’m there. And since Google Maps can easily put you on a spot these days, a lot of times I’m hitting the maps to find these same locations within hours of watch a movie–or, in this instance, I was hitting it this morning.
I’ve always had an interest in maps. I started reading them when I was young, and I was probably one of the first eight year olds who got excited when they found their first Rand McNally Atlas. I’ve always been able to take a map and look at a location, and imagine myself at that place. I’m not always good at that–pictures of the same place do help with putting your mind in the local–but even now, nearly fifty years after combing through my first map, I’m still looking at places on a map and forming a picture in my mind of what I’d feel if I were standing in the same spot.
Twenty years from now, if I’m still around, it’s likely I’ll be doing the same thing. I can’t always travel to these places, but as long as it’s on a map, I can imagine the landscape. I can put myself in those places and build a story from there. I’m doing that now with my fantasy story, and I’m building another world based off a location I found on Google Maps. It’s what I do, and have done for decades.
Someone should pay me for this; I’m very good, you know.
Yesterday I wasn’t in the mood to write. Yes, I know: it always seems as if I’m in the mood to write, but that’s not always true. Yesterday was one of those days when the words were stuck in the back of my mind, and the urge to get them out on a page was ranking somewhere below scrubbing the sleep from my eyes.
It happens. You get off somewhere in the ether, you find your mind wandering to other things, other stories, and the urge to write sort of vanishes. With the things that have been happening to me the last couple of weeks I don’t find it all that unusual that getting back into my stories has been a bit difficult.
I sort of found myself putting around, therefore, and when I came time to get into Fantasies in Harmonie, it was a tough slog. Write a little, then a distraction. Write a little, then I’d see something shiny. Write a little, then think of another story to work on.
On and on, into the night it went.
Here’s the thing, thought: I kept writing. Though I didn’t feel like writing, I kept at the story. I’d do a paragraph, then something else for a few minutes, then back in to do two or three paragraphs. Though there wasn’t any grand “Write Like a Madwoman for Hours” feel, it kept going–
Until I finally reached a point where I said, “It’s late, and this seems like a good place to stop the story.” Once I checked out what I’d written for the night, the final word count was almost twelve hundred words. As I told some people later, it wasn’t bad for someone who wasn’t in the mood to write.
I want to get back into the swing of writing like I mean it. Sure, it sounds like I’m working hard, but the last year has seen me struggling through my writing. A year of steady writing, and it seems like I have to kick myself in the butt to get it going. I could point to several things happening in my life that make it that way, but a big part is that I’m wanting a lot, and I’m not getting there the way I want to get there. I want it all, and I want it now.
I’m being impatient.
I’m looking for that lost planet, the one called Success, the one that says, “Okay, you can write, and you can even enjoy it, and you can spend the rest of your life doing it, and you won’t have to worry about editors and ISBNs and publication platforms. We gotcha covered, chickie.” And I get up in the morning and pull up my Scrivener files, and I drink my coffee and look over what it is I want to do for the day–
And I write.
That planet is out there; I just have to find the place. It would help if my ship were ready to go–
This morning I realized something: at times I have trouble remembering my dreams because I don’t know if I was dreaming, or if my ideas were intruding and becoming manifest.
Let me explain:
Yesterday was an all around good day to dream. I started about laying out a new plan for a school grounds that would, should, could end up in a story, and it was a bit o’ work, because I’m working off an area that’s real, and I needed to try and get my measurements correct. I’m nutty that way, needing to see what’s available in the real world, and then going to work so I can get the fantasy as real as possible.
Some people call it too much work; I call it part of the job.
I know there are adjustments in one of the buildings I created. for one, the space is far too large, and I need to scale it down just a bit. I’ll do that this morning, after I finish this post. Maybe I’ll add a few buildings. Maybe I’ll start giving them names, and start in on instructors . . .
Then it was off to Fantasies in Harmonie. I didn’t get into the story until around nine-forty PM, which is late by anyone’s measure, but I was so enthralled by my grounds work that I didn’t notice the passage of time. When you get into your groove and you’re overtaken by the world you’re creating, you can find yourself getting lost easily.
There was writing, though, and it went smoothly. It was time to describe the various transformations, and though I’d done one and went part ways through another, there was room to discuss what had happened to my characters, and for one person, that involved a lot of self-discovery which, in turn, required a bit of wordage to show what she was doing.
I once again found myself in my groove, because I’d finish a paragraph, then think, “Keep going; you need to finish what she’s feeling.” It’s late, I’m tired, my eyes are starting to hurt–but I needed to finish. That’s a feeling I haven’t had in a while when it comes to my writing. You take a couple of months off to edit your work, to get your stories ready for publishing, and you get out of that mood of writing because you need to get something said.
By the time I finished with the line that I’d been waiting to write for a while–lets just say it’s something Ariel should have said after she washed up on shore–I’d put eleven hundred words behind me, and I’d done that in one hour. I was even impressed, because I haven’t cranked out something like that in a while. But the fantasy was there, and it demanded I give it my energy–and I did.
I had to write.
This is why I have trouble remembering my dreams some mornings: I don’t always know what’s a dream and what’s left over from my imagination. They are both one and the same–and it’s my job to get them out for others to see.
I fool myself a lot, I really do. I do what I can, I work hard, and I strive to get ahead. I set goals for myself that some say are ambitious, others says may be a little foolish, but they are my goals, and I do my best to get them done.
There are some thing, though, I just can’t do. I’m not talking about being able to read minds: I do believe I’ll get that talent licked one of these days. No, I’m talking about something else–
I’m talking about being able to write a short story.
When I set out doing Fantasies in Harmonie, I told people, a few people, a number of people, that I was going to “keep it short”. It’s fantasy erotica, and if you want people to be interested, you gotta get right to the sex. Most of the stuff out there–by which I mean, “The tentacle sex stories on Smashwords“–seem to be between five thousand and eight thousand words, so if you’re doing it sexy, you’re doing it short.
I’ve mentioned that writing short can sometimes be a problem for me. The shortest thing I’ve published is just short of ten thousand words–the maximum for what most people consider a short story–and the longest . . . well, it was so long I decided to cut it into three novels. As my ex would say of Stephen King, “He’s too wordy,” and I seem to have the same problem. Not that I consider it a problem, but there are some who have told me I’m a good writer if I can’t do a short story. (To which I had a rather choice reply, but that’s another story . . .)
Therefor, when writing Fantasies in Harmonie, I knew I was going to keep it short, keep it simple, make it all about the smut and put a fake name on the sucker–
Yeah, right.
I finished my eight hundred words last night–I was feeling down, didn’t really feel like writing, but I got it in–and I looked at where I am in the tale. I’m eight hundred and twenty-three words into the current scene–which happens to be the second scene of the second part, which is–lemme see . . . sixty-two hundred words into the story.
And no sex at all. Hell, I just now got to the fantasy transformations!
Issac Asimov once said that short stories were probably the hardest thing to write. Yeah, I know: he wrote like two hundred of them, so how hard can it be? If you look at that another way, he knew how hard it was, because he’d taught himself to become good in that form, and that took a lot of work to develop that talent. There are a lot of reasons why shorts are not that prevalent today, number one of which seems to be a lack of markets for writers to peddle their wares.
Back in the day of the Golden Age of Science Fiction there were hundreds of markets for shorts, and not only could one sell a three thousand word story for a penny a word, but actually live on that, writers went for that gold. Today, you want to do a short story, you’ll probably post it to an internet board and not see a dime for you effort–you’ll be lucky to get one comment.
This isn’t about markets with me, however: this is about what I do. And I do novelettes, novellas, and novels. I don’t have a problem with that–
I do hope people like my long form erotica, though.
Yesterday, Friday, was a lazy day. I wasn’t exactly busy, but at the same time I wasn’t eager to do anything. Like writing–
I work on this blog every day. I’ve had people tell me that this isn’t real writing, but then again, if it’s not, what is it? I’m of the opinion that if you write, it doesn’t matter what you write, it’s still writing. I forget who said it–may have been Stephen King–but he said something along the lines of, “If you don’t have ideas coming to you, or you’re finding it difficult to write about anything, start typing out things. Songs you like, your grocery list, names of places you want to visit. Keep typing, and eventually you’ll find get through your block and write.”
That’s why I blog. If I keep writing, every day, then when it comes time to do something I need to write–like a story–then it’s not a problem: I’ll sit right down and get to writing. You’re working on the skill, developing it further, and it will eventually show in your other work.
That’s the hope. As another writer said–the name escapes me at the moment–if after a year or two, your writing hasn’t improved, you haven’t started to take chances with your work, then you’re not growing. You’re not trying to improve, you’re just sort of marking time.
This is my little mountain hall, my blog. I have another, but I’ve been really lazy about going there, and I should do something about that. But this one, the one I’ve stuck with for a little over two years, is my fortress. I have my followers, and you’re all very good to me. A few of you even know me beyond this blog, which is both strange and crazy when I think about it.
I try to think of how I look, sitting in my mountain hall, upon my throne, waiting for my subjects to appear. I could say I’m like the Lady Death of Blogging, but that could be a bit scary, don’t you think? Or am I sitting here in my Witchblade armor, pretty much naked, my body all bent and twisted like I’m constructed out of Rob Liefeld’s best imagination? Maybe I’m more Jean Grey-like, ready to eat a planet on a moment’s notice. Naw, not that: she’s been dead for eight years, though she’ll probably come back to life one of these days–again.
Whatever it is, I’m here, in control of my works and words, and doing both as much as is possible.
I had a couple of people tell me that I’m an inspiration, because I work at this craft every day, and I never seem to give up. It’s not easy–the working part, not the inspiration. I do this because I want to do this, and I want to do it every day for the rest of my life. It’s my dream, you know? But I find it easy to want to give up. I find it easy to walk away, sometimes forever. Quitting is easy–
Writing is hard.
This is post seven hundred and fifty, and in another eight or nine months I’ll have a cool thousand to my name. Sometime in early 2014 I’ll sit down and come up with a cool name for post number one thousand, and recollect. Maybe I’ll even have some good news to tell you about a novel I’ve just published.
