There’s snow outside my window. Three days ago it was 50 F outside, and now there’s snow gathering on my drive. And by the end of the week it’s suppose to be up in the mid-40′s again. Welcome to weather in the Midwest.
The holidays are almost over, and so are my current writing projects. The first edit of the NaNo Novel is done, and the story is sleeping. I’m working on getting the document proofed, so I’m hoping that in the next few weeks I’ll get someone to look it over and give me some notes on what needs to be edited.
I’m getting ready to look for placed to plant this novel as well–and I don’t mean a plot of land in the back yard. One way or the other I’m going to see it in print, and that doesn’t mean going through a vanity press. If you’re serious about going on to write for a living, then you want to see your words in print.
This is the next step. Do it or don’t bother, that’s what I say. I’ve been “not bothering” for so long that it’s almost become second nature, but I to stop that. I had a long discussion with myself the other day, and I concluded that if I was serious about being a writer, then I needed to get serious about getting into print. Hard or soft copy, I don’t care: I need to write and I need to sell said writing. That simple.
Enough with the bullshit excuses.
This brings me back to my Work in Progress, my new story . . . and I’ve noticed something strange. Well, I have noticed something strange for a while with this, but yesterday and today I’ve noticed it even more. I can do 500 to 700 words sprints on the story, but when I try to push it beyond that, I get stuck. It’s like I don’t want to go beyond that point. I hit a very real and definite wall, and then I have to wait a bit before getting back into the story.
Right now I’m in a part of the story where two of my characters are talking to a third about someone he knew, someone who, in the context of the story, has been dead for over a thousand years. Someone whom, the reader has learned, one of the main characters cared for a great deal.
It’s a very personal story for me. But it’s also a story about loss, about the whole concept of “what could have been” and how it slipped away. And that’s the thing: I’m taking it far too personally.
There is a whisper I hear, one that says, “You’re saying your goodbyes”. No, not really, but it feels that way. That’s the way my brain works when it is working; it spends most of its time messing me up.
So stop, you bastard. Stop messing with me.
There are no goodbyes. If there were to be a goodbye, it would be to my old life. It’s in need of a quick kick in the ass on the way out the door. I need to send it packing.
It’s part of the thing with my dreams; my life is going through a lot of change at the moment, and it really freakin’ needs it. One of the things that came to mind this morning was that I have no fun anymore. No fun at all. It’s all get up, get on the computer, write, veg. And we all know that All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Fracking Homicidal Killer, right?
I’m not that far gone, but I need something different. Yes, to write, I want that, but I need something else–
I need change.
And, as the 6th Doctor added, not a moment too soon.