The Windswept Silence

Late night for me, because I was out and about visiting, taking in pizza and movies, and staying up a lot later than I would normally.  In fact, when I realized the time, I hadn’t realized the time.  That’s how the evening went.

I was right about yesterday:  I didn’t get a lot of writing done.  About three hundred and sixty words, that was it, but it was the initial description of my other main female character for my novel, and that was what I needed to move on to the next part of Chapter Five.

But, once more, I got my motor running to go somewhere, and while going there and back, my mind was on a lot of things.  My Muse was on my mind; my story was on my mind; stories I haven’t written were on my mind.  It was all there, roaming about, getting down in my memories and making it known that I wasn’t going to forget anything.

Most of what I thought about were scenes from a story that hasn’t been written, but has been on my mind of late.  It has to do with having to do a duty that is both exciting and frightening, and once they’ve begun, the characters in question are presented with–call it an alternate reality of their lives.  Those the two characters have been together a long time, things happened in their past that pulled them away from people who they’d fallen for very hard.  And times and events and people being what they are, the characters were never able to reconcile these relationships, and therefore became somewhat haunted by the dreams of what could have been.

Each is given the opportunity to enjoy time with the “one who got away,” because, as one character is told, “You’ve always deserved to be happy.  Even if you are happy now, it is not the happiness you wanted.  You deserve to be with your one true soul mate; you deserve to be happy, even if for a little while.”  The character in question finds they are unable to disagree, because, deep down, they have always wanted that particular happiness–and even if they question how they are achieving the moment, they don’t care . . .

But, being me, you know they’ll end up in some kind of misery by the end of the story.  Actually they end up in some rather strange stuff at the end, but that’s also me . . .

I’ve thought a lot about happiness where it comes to my characters.  It’s easy to say that we all need to be happy, that we should have that one, great love that would make our lives complete.  It doesn’t always happen:  that’s pretty obvious when you look at the general human condition.  It’s not always possible, but we try.  And if we can’t try, we dream and fantasize.

Some of us take those dreams and fantasies and turn them into the stuff prose is made from, and then bleed upon our pages for the entertainment of others.

Because our silence is always the loudest.

The Day Maker

It’s not often that I walk into work and discover my day has been made.

The night was pretty normal.  Started on the penultimate chapter of Diners at the Memory’s End, and managed to get about six hundred words in before sleep started calling.  I’ve been hitting the mattress about 10:30, or there about, and last night was no different.

Last night I did dream, and I could remember most of it.  A damn silly thing it was, too, because the majority of it dealt with me losing a shopping cart–or having it taken, I can’t be certain–and then being bitched at by people over it.  In particular, one person wanted to know if my wallet was safe, if all my cards were okay, and that I should call all the companies and make certain no one was using the numbers.  The whole damn thing was like that, and it seemed like no matter where I went, I was being “reminded” about losing the cart and checking my cards.

As you might imagine, waking up was something of a strange occurrence.  With dreams like that, it makes you question what you’re doing, and what’s going to come at you through the rest of the day.  And Fridays are long days for me, since I have to head back to The Real Home after work at The Hole is finished.

Once into work I did what I usually do:  bring up the computer, launch all my programs, and open my mail.  That’s where I saw it:

The thing that made my day.

It’s not a lot; some might say it’s nothing.  But to me it was fantastic.

I was invited to a lunch, and the invitation came from someone outside my area.

Oh, sure, that sounds like a whole lot of nothing.  But if you knew what it’s like here, how there seems to be a complete lack of care for how I’m doing, then getting something like this is a big deal to me.  It’s almost an affirmation that someone here does think about me, and not about just how I’m doing on my projects.

In many ways writing is like this job.  You do so much of it in silence, in solitude, alone with only your thoughts.  You work on your stories, you create, you edit, you polish, you throw it out there for all to see.

Sure, you have your writing friends, you have a little group of people who ask you how things are coming with your novel or story, if you’ve finished it, or you’ve completed your edit, whether you’ve sold it or self-published.

There is something a writer desires, however.  It’s when they’re completed from an unexpected source.  It’s when, from out of the blue, an unexpected source asks you if they can read your manuscript, they read it, and they fall in love with it.

It’s that moment of serendipity when you realize someone cares about your craft beyond mundane things like, “How many books have you sold?”.

Little slices of time, such as these, are what making getting up in the morning exciting.

Now . . . can I have more, please?

Through the Shadows

Finally, finally . . . I pushed through yesterday.  ”Pushed through what?” you say.  That is a good questions.

For some reason yesterday was a whole bunch of feeling like there was nothing happening.  It wasn’t quiet The Zombie Walk, where everything seems to pass by while you’re in this daze; no, it was more like things weren’t interesting.  That things were on hold.  I was there to watch things unfold around me, and not much else.

But I broke up the routine a bit going home.  I stopped off for dinner–though I shouldn’t have eaten what I did, because I felt totally bloated afterwards–then did something else last night that got me out of The Undisclosed Location.  It didn’t have me out for a long time, but it was out.  It was something a little different, and it was good.

When I got back to the casa, I ended up chatting with a couple of people that I hadn’t seen in a while.  While I was doing that, I hit YouTube and started playing song that, in some cases, I hadn’t heard in a while.  A couple of the songs brought back memories that I also hasn’t shared in a while, and that actually brought a smile to my face.

And then it came time to write.

Last night it wasn’t that I didn’t want to write, but damned if my fingers didn’t want to comply.  I was having a lot of trouble typing, having to go back and fix words, and for a while it was driving me crazy.  It’s been like that for a while, and it’s something that doesn’t make me want to really enjoy writing, let me tell ya.

But I went at it.  And though I was getting tired–which probably played a part in why I couldn’t get the fingers to move the way I needed them to move–I ended up with 765 words, and Part Eight of Diners at the Memory’s End edged forward a little more.

I got them through the game; I got them back into the main cabin; I got them ready to watch a dying star.  Now what?

Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?

After all the feelings yesterday that I was bogging down and going nowhere fast, that I was burning a candle at way more than both ends, today I feel a lot more refreshed and reinvigorated.  It’s not just the coffee, either:  it’s good, but not that good.  I’ve made way better than this . . .

It’s more the feeling that things are moving forward.  Believe it when I say that something happened yesterday that sort of solidified where I’m going.  While it didn’t seem that way at first, it felt like it after I had a change to review in retrospect.  Part of it is my writing; part of it is just life in general.  Of late it’s felt like there’s been a huge amount of Debbie Downer bullshit hanging around and polluting my aura.  But that only happens if I let it continue.  This morning . . . I got better things to do.

Like it or not, something changed on 25 June, 2012.  Nothing left to do but ride this whirlwind and see where it takes me.

Juggling With One Hand

Every day that passes, I get a better understanding of what it means to be a working writer.  Notice I didn’t say “Writer”, because we all know, there are far too many people who like to say, “Oh, yeah.  I’m working on a novel.  Probably going to finish that any day now–”

Yeah, I know.  I used to be that guy.

This weekend has been pretty much a writing madhouse, however.  Friday afternoon and night, editing out the wazoo.  Then blogging, and editing yesterday.  Then, this morning, I was setting up my story excerpt on another blog, getting it nice and neat.  I have a manuscript I promised I would review for someone.

Right now, I’m writing this.  And later I’ll need to either (A) edit another chapters in Her Demonic Majesty, or (B) continue Part Three of Diners at the Memory’s End.

It’s all up in the air, folks, but I’m having fun.

I’m mentioned before that it seems like the deeper one gets into this craft, the more seemed to pop up.  Just yesterday, someone gave me a link to a publisher’s website.  They are looking for submissions, and one of the genres they’re interested in would be perfect for Her Demonic Majesty.   They want novels in the 80,000 word range, which is even more perfect for Demonic Majesty.

With only two more chapters left in a final draft edit, it’s time to check out the publisher’s submission requirements, and fire up that query letter.  I think I have a shot here.

I can’t put a finger on it, but the last month, when I was feeling like the biggest pile of crap in the world–because I was sick nearly the whole month–a lot more was getting done than I imagined.  I’m feeling something this week . . . it’s confidence.  I know I have no reason for it, but it’s building up.

I do believe that, with a bit more work, I can make this writing thing–the whole Penmonkey Experience, as Chuck Wendig might say–work.  It might actually get to where it will pay the bills and leave a little left over to enjoy life.

I’ve told people before, if I were write full-time, and make 60k, 70k a year, I’d be very happy.  If I made six-figures, I’d be very ecstatic.  If I got an advance that would put me in Stephen King territory, I’m gonna throw on a Vera Wang dress, some stiletto heels, and do a dance under the Picasso in Daley Plaza, Chicago.

Anyway you look at it, I’ll have achieved something I’ve wanted for a very long time.

The other night I was speaking with My Muse–and yes, Sian, she is sexy–and she told me, in so many words, “Don’t look back.”  I can’t these days.  There’s too much going on, too much change that’s ongoing, and right now, looking back isn’t something I can do.  I’ve had a taste of what’s possible, so why piss that away now?

There’s only one way to go these days, and that’s forward.  On until the end of the road.  As a friend likes to day, “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

Time to call up Jenny Everywhere and see what she’s doing for lunch . . .