The cold is trying to come back; I can feel it. I actually felt it last night, sneaking about in the darkness of the bedroom right before I headed off to sleepy-time. Pain in the ass, it is, but I’m not going to let it get me down . . . even though it’s doing its best to do just that.
But to hell with the cold. I’ll beat it one way or the other, and tomorrow the Chicago area will find itself somewhere warm, with the temps getting up close to seventy. Changing climate? Shirley you jest! (I know you saw what I did there . . .)
Chapter Seven was begun last night, and I was on a good run last night. Had Yessongs playing on the computer, and I must have been in a great mood, because I was typing away with few distractions. I’m at the point in the story where my character Keith finds he’s come home after an evening of sybaritic pleasure with the lovely Elektra, and discovers he’s written something—a lot of something. Then Erin appears, they have a little back and forth about where she was sleeping, and then . . .
This is where I left off the chapter, almost thirteen hundred words from the beginning. It was a fast thirteen hundred, too: I did it in about fifty-five minutes, making this the quickest writing I’ve done in a long time.
The whole gist of the chapter involves what we do for work. A couple of times Erin, the muse, tells Keith he has two jobs: one that pays the bills, but doesn’t “feed his soul”, and another that allows him to engage in all the things he wants and loves. This is nothing new for anyone who isn’t a professional writer; if you’re like me, and you write, you do so with the hope that one day this is all you’ll ever do, and you aren’t thinking about being crazy-ass Twilight rich, you’d be happy if you could knock down high five figures every year . . . though I will take the crazy-ass Twilight rich, because who doesn’t want to laugh at haters who come online just to tell you that the first five minutes of Up tells a better love story than your crap, because after your laugh you’re going to dive into a room full of money, Scrooge McDuck-style. Haters gonna hate, right?
We all wait for that message that says someone has read your manuscript, and they found it worthy of publication. It’s after this that you work your butt off to produce another work that will be published, and if and when that’s bought, then you write another, and so forth, and so on . . . and before you know it, people are on Facebook posting, “You’re book suzks! You should stop righting, because your story is told better by The Host!” At which point you either flip the computer off (not turn it off, but flip it off, if you know what I mean) and get back to your current work in progress, or you laugh and look for your bathing suit.
At some point you have to ask yourself: would I miss a day of “work” to work on my story? I have asked myself that question—
I know the answer.