A very quick conversation this morning opened a little window into that thing I call “My Life”, such as it is. I wasn’t saying much, just what I did last night, and what I’ll do today. Those things I spoke of? Writing. So for yesterday I blogged, wrote a couple of theme descriptions for Windows 8, edited some three thousand words, and wrote nine hundred word of an article before going to bed. What will I do today? Blog, edit a couple of thousand words, write a couple of Windows 8 theme descriptions, and finish my article.
Sounds like fun, no?
I made the joke, “When am I getting paid for this?” but I know that will come in time–so I hope. I’m heading in the right direction, and eventually, maybe with this next novel I’ll get noticed, picked up, contacted, rich, buy an abandoned mansion, and become a Bond villainess, because if there’s one thing Bond needs it’s bad girls who screw him. Got the cover coming, the editing and formatting is coming, and in a month or so the novel will be a reality.
(By the way, a friend turned me on to a rant by the same person who gets into fights with her fictional characters and loses, and said that she can’t self publish because she’s not rich. Ummm, last time I checked you didn’t need to be rich to self-publish, you just had to be able to write, edit, work with someone who’ll give you honest criticism, maybe get a friend who’ll make you a cover for cheep, and then set up an account, format your book, then upload and wait. But then, this person is one of those vampires who lives to suck the life out of you, so the moral of the story is laugh at these people, kiddies: they deserve it all.)
There is the fear that I don’t have an idea ready for when all this is done. The mind seems to have shut down with the ideas while I concentrate on getting stories ready. I suppose that’s the way thing go; you concentrate on one thing, and the mind files everything down in the back until you need them.
There is the fear, however: what if the new ideas never come? What if I’m stuck writing lots of stuff I already have imagined out, and nothing else ever comes to mind. Not that I don’t have a lot of stories to tell: you’d have to see some of my time lines to know this. Still, it does bother me a bit–
Which means I’m driving myself crazy with things I need not drive. I’m on the up escalator to the crazy house, worried that I’m never gonna have a new idea in my entire life. I already know this is bull, because my ideas have left me with a whole lot of material, and my other fear is I’ll never write it all before I shuck this mortal coil.
You think this keeps George R. R. Martin up at night?