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.

The Group Fade

There was something goofy with the computer last night, because I’m trying to edit and it’s making everything on the system drag.  Not to mention I was in one of those, “I do everything at once!” modes last night.  And my hair was driving me nuts, too.  What is causing this?  It’s not a full moon, that’s for sure.  The aftermath of a blue moon?  A change in the weather?  The impending end of Breaking Bad and the downfall of the Heisenberg Meth Empire?

Don’t want to say it’s aliens, but . . .

I realized yesterday that this coming Monday is Labor Day, and I’ll be spending it in The Burg alone.  In the past I was always around family during holidays, even when working in The Undisclosed Location.  This time–no.  Too far to drive.  I suppose if I were crazy enough I could leave out Friday night, spend ten hours in the dark driving, and arrive home about one in the morning–only to turn around and come back on Monday.  But that’s not how you do it.  That’s a waste of time and money.

I suppose I’ll get through  Maybe it’s time to explore . . .

I haven’t started writing anything new yet, but I think this weekend could be the time to start.  I’m getting to where I want to do something, but I don’t want to start on a novel or novella.  I don’t want to spend a month putting another thirty thousand words down, because I’m going to turn around and do that in November.  I’ve decided I will attempt NaNo, but I’m concerned I’ll actually “win” it this year.  Anymore it’s not about winning or losing:  it’s about writing a good story.  It’s about doing something you can publish–

Which, speaking of publishing, I need to get on my own stuff.  I need to do one last edit, then hand out my story and see about getting a cover.  I’m slacking there, but it’s not as if I haven’t had a lot keeping my busy of late.  The last month seems to have gone on and on with non-stop fun, though with September coming in things are starting to settle.  I think the next few weeks will see everything getting into a normal swing.  And once that happens, then I can start doing something else.

But I want that short story written.  And with it an article or two I’ve been sitting upon.  It need to be done.  And soon.

There was something in my dreams last night that I found unusual.  I was standing on the edge of something–building, hill, don’t know.  And there were thousands of people in an area below me, all of them mumbling something.  I looked out over them, then waved my hand and told them, “Go.  Leave.”  And they turned and started walking away, still mumbling, making their sounds.

I have no idea what that’s suppose to mean.  Was I looking over the past and telling it to leave me the hell alone?  Was it the present?  Were they the people I knew or know?  Or was it, you know, just a dream, one of those things where strange things happen–

‘Cause I was also stripping in the dream, too.

I didn’t look half bad.