Thirty Days and All That Jazz

Here we are, last day of September, and it’s been a weekend.  Friday was good, Saturday was tiring, Sunday was wash day and watching Nazis head off to Belize.

It’s all over.  Now is the time to get serious, kids.

There were a number of distractions keeping me from my writing this last week, and I really didn’t do jack.  Actually I didn’t do jack most of the month, but that’s September for me.  I did that in 2011, and I did that again in 2012.  Well, really, no, I didn’t do it in 2011:  I finished up and published Kuntilanak then, but lets not go there.  September seems to be a time for screwing off rather than writing, and it happened this month, too.

Though, lets be honest:  the last few weeks have involved moving and running around and getting to know my new local a lot better.  Lots and lots of things happening, and none of them writing related.

And this is where I sort of fall on my sword, because I’ve always managed to get in writing no matter what.  Spend twelve hours writing, work on something for an hour.  Spend six hours running around on the weekend, work on a story for ninety minutes.  I’ve always done that.

Not this last month.  This last month was do stuff then screw around.  Don’t bother working on anything because . . . well, just because.  I haven’t felt like doing a damn thing.  Call it being tired, call it creative burnout, but it’s been a bit of a downer.  Because I do want to work towards something I desire greatly.

Here is the really sucky thing:  driving back from The Abandoned Turnpike (which I wrote about yesterday), I worked out a few scenes for the NaNo Novel in my head.  I mean, there’s like sixty miles of driving, what else is there to do except notice that Amish farmer working his field?  (Which I totally did, yo.)  That’s great;  always thinking, always working.

Except by the time I got back to The Burg, as I’m getting closer to my destination, I’m getting tired.  I’m getting so tired I’m finding it hard to stay awake, which is never good when you’re driving along at seventy.  I stopped, picked up a few things, ran back to the Castle in the Sky, and did . . . something.

This morning, I’m damned if I can remember what I’d thought out Saturday afternoon.  Maybe that’s because it’s six forty-five in the morning, but I’m usually good with these things, and now–nothing.  It’s all a blank.

Well, not completely a blank; there’s something in that black hole of my brain somewhere.  But I don’t like this feeling of not remembering something that, at the time, I thought would be good for my story.  And I don’t like not working on my stories.  Thirty days hath September, now it’s burnt like a dying ember.

It’s time I won’t get back.

I have things to finish, and October is upon me.  No more waiting or messing around.  It’s time to move forward.