Yikes. That's sad, y'all. Pandemic done got me thinking a year and almost 4 months didn't just fly right by me and all. That totally bites.
But here's my problem: I came up here to my home office (where I actually did my real job for two months this year) to finish my latest "masterpiece" and just ended singing along to the "Rock Opus 2" Spotify Playlist and scrolling through Facebook, after I corrected four typos in the manuscript. Now I'm staring at that marker in the middle of a Word Documents that says "Add RAUCOUS sex scene here" and I got nothing.
You gotta be kidding me. I had a whole quarantine to finish this. What's going on up there in that brain o'mine?? I used to write scenes that would make Jude Devereaux proud. And they were ten times better than those Grey books.
Oops. Did I just write that out loud? #sorrynotsorry
Let's see what was stirring back in May 2019:
I wrote some last week. And it was awesome.
Well, the content may not be overwhelmingly awesome (to some), but it felt good. Feeling that Cersei Lannister moment: "I drink wine because it feels good. I kill people because it feels good."
(Actually a writer can do that and not get arrested. Kill people, I mean. Isn't that nice? Her creator does it quite often. I wouldn't do all those things she talked about, though. Because some of it is really inappropriate.) And I don't have a brother. Just sayin'.
Anyway, all writers know that anxiety of the blank page. I guess I don't think of it quite like that, because I know at some point I'm going to fill it up. Maybe not right that second, but I know...one day...
I even bought a package of loose-leaf paper Saturday (NOTE: This was 2019's Free Comic Book Day/Star Wars Day/WineFest. Two of which were cancelled in 2020. Those were good times....). Pastel colors. It was only three dollars at Office Depot. I won't go into my spiel about how great office supply/stationery stores are. I think that was another blog I wrote a few years ago. Brand new notebooks or sheets of paper are like a gold mine for me. Always have been. So many possibilities. I have three notebooks in my backpack right now. (This is still true. Always true.)
Writing fiction was a challenge after I finished my dissertation, which involved four years of writing dry, pedantic, academic drivel. Well, I won't say "drivel": it was nominated for Dissertation of the Year, so it must have been pretty good. But it was hard to switch gears and write fun stuff again. I'd sit down with the previously-named "Opus 2" and think, wait a minute...none of these characters would ever use the word "efficacy." I hope I will never use it again.
I think what has affected my writing of recent days is a different kind of fear, and I started to feel it creep in as I finished a rather lengthy sequence last week: The fear of being sucked in to my fictional world and being unable to come back out. Or instilling fear into those who interrupt me while I'm there. That's probably scarier. I don't do well when others break my concentration.
At all. You've been warned. Refer to Cersei Lannister quote.
Well, the content may not be overwhelmingly awesome (to some), but it felt good. Feeling that Cersei Lannister moment: "I drink wine because it feels good. I kill people because it feels good."
(Actually a writer can do that and not get arrested. Kill people, I mean. Isn't that nice? Her creator does it quite often. I wouldn't do all those things she talked about, though. Because some of it is really inappropriate.) And I don't have a brother. Just sayin'.
Anyway, all writers know that anxiety of the blank page. I guess I don't think of it quite like that, because I know at some point I'm going to fill it up. Maybe not right that second, but I know...one day...
I even bought a package of loose-leaf paper Saturday (NOTE: This was 2019's Free Comic Book Day/Star Wars Day/WineFest. Two of which were cancelled in 2020. Those were good times....). Pastel colors. It was only three dollars at Office Depot. I won't go into my spiel about how great office supply/stationery stores are. I think that was another blog I wrote a few years ago. Brand new notebooks or sheets of paper are like a gold mine for me. Always have been. So many possibilities. I have three notebooks in my backpack right now. (This is still true. Always true.)
Writing fiction was a challenge after I finished my dissertation, which involved four years of writing dry, pedantic, academic drivel. Well, I won't say "drivel": it was nominated for Dissertation of the Year, so it must have been pretty good. But it was hard to switch gears and write fun stuff again. I'd sit down with the previously-named "Opus 2" and think, wait a minute...none of these characters would ever use the word "efficacy." I hope I will never use it again.
I think what has affected my writing of recent days is a different kind of fear, and I started to feel it creep in as I finished a rather lengthy sequence last week: The fear of being sucked in to my fictional world and being unable to come back out. Or instilling fear into those who interrupt me while I'm there. That's probably scarier. I don't do well when others break my concentration.
At all. You've been warned. Refer to Cersei Lannister quote.
Back to 2020. Cersei Lannister is "technically" dead now. So's my creativity apparently. Damn you, 'Rona.
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