Juggling running chainsaws, machetes, and lit torches

Writing is an effort. I’ve likened putting a finished ms out for publication to giving birth, but perhaps the better comparison would be to sending a kid to college. After all, gestation in the womb is a largely unconscious process. Writing is anything but. We plot and plan and think for hours. I am a pantser, but that’s not to say that I sit down at the keyboard and the words spill out. I need time to think and read and be consciously aware of the story, before I can type it up. Not outlining previous to writing sometimes means that I need to do it after, and I really hate rewriting.

Sometime recently I felt that I couldn’t write. It isn’t that I thought I was done with writing forever. I still have the stories in my head, but when I was home and could sit down they slipped away, elusive. I was tired. School is a factor, other life pressures are a factor. Rather than taking a break, I took a trip, which was the right decision but it was another reason that writing wasn’t happening.

I began to feel it. I don’t know if not-writing was more of a stress for not letting my mind release the stories it wants to tell, or if it was a very conscious awareness of how much of my income depends on producing fresh, new material. An Indie Author cannot rest on her laurels. As with any other job, it’s ‘what have you done for me recently?’ and the successes of the past fade from memory.

I need to write. I want to write. But sitting down and writing is an elusive discipline. I’d stopped treating it like a job, since I was focused on getting through school and getting into that new career. I need to get back to that. No matter what else I do in life, I plan to always write, which means I need to actually, well, write.

So I’m writing. It’s not fiction, but it’s words on the keyboard. I’d do words on the paper but then I’d have to type them up and frankly right now any time is precious. Also, I’m out of practice and my hand cramps. I know this from one professor’s exams where I have to write an essay and I can only manage so much before my hand gives out on me. Fortunately I can write succinctly when I need to.

So here I am, writing. I haven’t a good idea of what I’m saying, it’s just words on the screen right now. Maybe with practice I’ll get back to a story. It’s not that I worry about writing crap. I don’t think I wrote high literature before. But I do worry about story, coherency, consistency, and character. Without those, I might as well be writing high literary, and I have no pretension that way. Quite the opposite.

I’m a reverse lit-snob. I want story in my stories. I’d rather not read about fear and self-loathing, which is what most lit seems to have. The characters hate themselves, hate everyone and everything around them. I want love and kindness and hope in my story. Maybe not sunshine and roses and unicorn farts all the time… but joy. Joy in some small measure, that life will be worth living.

Writing is my joy. I can do other things and be perfectly happy, but I’m not happy entirely when I’m not writing. It's not just that I’m a workaholic – I am not driven by a desire to work, but by a desire to be productive and support my family, and to a lesser extent by the desire to create. I want to tell my stories, to develop my ideas. Sometimes to develop the ideas my Evil Muse (also known as my husband) hands to me with that mischievous eyebrow thing he does.

So the initial goal is 1000 words a day. Ideally this is fiction, and on top of any blogging or school assignments. I think I can manage that. I can usually put out that much in an hour (and sometimes more). Today it’s this long rambly thing about the writing, because I’m doing free-association. One of my closest friends has been nudging me toward this and I am listening, really I am.

I know that sleep is a good thing and I can’t skimp on it. So I will re-evaluate my schedule, again, and see where I can squeeze in an hour or so at the keyboard. I need this time for me. I also need time for my children, and husband, and oh, yes, housecleaning… Sigh. I am determined to make time, so I will make it happen. I shall bend the universe to my will!

And isn’t that what we writers do? We create universes, and bend them to our wills. Well, we try, anyway. Personally, I have a tendency to write characters with a mind of their own. If the story is good, I feel like I’m writing about them, rather than making them up. And that’s where I want to get back to with my writing. Forcing that is unpleasant and feels wrong and in my opinion, results in a sub-par story. I want to create at my best, not simply inflate the word count.

I think I can do that again. Maybe. We’ll see how well I can manage my time and energy and walk the slack rope (look it up. Harder than a tight tope in my opinion) of my life. Some days, it feels more like riding a unicycle on a slack rope. I never did master the unicycle. Or juggling, for that matter. And no, I’m not going to try again. I want to write, not juggle. Life feels enough like juggling running chainsaws, machetes, and lit torches as it is. Dropping even one thing could have dire consequences.

Right. Up, and at ‘em. This day’s writing is on the screen, and I have homework to prep for the coming week of classes. Also this week, I have an appointment with a resume specialist at school, and I will register for fall classes. A bit excited about that, I will admit. The last semester. And the job hunt will begin in earnest. Life is changing again. Still. Change is the only constant.

The Barred Window