Periods and Sessions

I should commit to weekly updates, of course that would infer that I could commit to monthly updates and two months in a row hardly speaks of commitment.

The truth is - the guilty truth - that I have not been writing. Thinking about writing; yes. Actually writing; no. I'll need to remedy that in the very near future.

I am also attempting to broaden my readership beyond, well, me. If you can't have friends read your work, how will you ever trust the strange public to the task, right?

I may also in the very near future find a way to web-publish some material so that people can read more than just my musings. Perhaps a full-fledged website is in order.

Of Changes and Rests

If a change is as good as a vacation, I should be the most rested person I know.

There have been no shortage of changes in the last year and I certainly do feel rested. Or at the very least as if I am waking up from a very long sleep.

I have taken the time to read over some of the works in progress I had on the go the last time I set my "pen" down, and they still ask to be finished; this is a good sign.

With a little luck (and some real commitment) one of my next posts will be an announcement of submission for publication.

I will rely on you to cross your fingers as it makes typing a bit tricky.

The Long Nothing

It has very nearly been a year since beginning this chronicling, and I have to say, I've been neglectful.

I wouldn't call it writer's block, because that would imply an attempt at writing. Plain and simple procrastination--for shame, I know. So from now on perhaps the shame of publicly reporting my negligence will compel me to write; something should!

Lost in the Black

When I stare into space at night there is sometimes a sense of longing, of emptiness, of fear. Even for all the stars in existence, for all the brilliance that I know is there, the darkness seems to be winning. Perhaps the greatest underlining fear of all when staring into space is the oldest: what happens when we die?

I've been struck with the though to write a thriller taking place in an outer space, or life-supported environment. Something that could easily carry an undercurrent of helplessness to it. An extra, environmental antagonist if you will.

"Lost in the Black" will likely refer to a number of themes running through the work, beyond the obvious isolation in space.

(Yes, the rather large gap in log entries does represent a rather large gap in writing activities, but we work on a commitment-free level around here.)

Ghost Wood

I've been starting a lot of stories in very different genres. Feeling out for what feels right, I suppose. Currently, I'm flushing out some high level plot details for a series of (possibly) three books set in the american west: cowboy times, as it were.

I've never actually read anything written in that era, but it has always been a side interest of mine, so perhaps I should. My goal is to create a main character you both hate and love, though perhaps like and dislike would be a more realistic approach.

Questioning Oneself

There is a writer I have admired for quite some time, but have never read a book that they have written. Recently I had the chance to pick up their first book and began to read. Understand that this writer is held in quite high esteem and enjoyed by all the right people: they now write for a living.

This brings me to the sad conclusion that I may very well never be a successful writer; I did not enjoy the book. There are fundamental things about it that disrupted my ability to finish it for some time. Some of the characters that I assume are believed to be well thought out are transparent and stupid to the point of groan-worthy. The writing perspective leaps from one head to another, one time to another frequently and somewhat jarringly in the same chapter; the same paragraph sometimes. In places there is far more explanation than should be necessary (some of it incorrect). There also appears to be an author-soap-box brought out via too many characters too many times.

Immersion is difficult to say the least.

So, the fear that this evokes in me is: am I wasting my time writing? I realize that this is their thing and not necessarily mine, but I worry that there is no audience for the stories or messages I wish to share. Or that perhaps I have none to share; no real substance.

Perhaps I've raised the pedestal too high? Perhaps I simply do not enjoy the genre? Or perhaps I'm looking for more reasons to procrastinate my own efforts.

The New Feels Old

March is here; another month deep in my quest to become published.

I seem to no longer be writing dozens of fantasy-themed stories in parallel (none of which ever being completed), but I now do have a small collection of modern, dark fiction pieces being written (none of which yet completed).

*sigh*

I appear to have commitment issues. I'm unsure if this is an indication of whether the material is worth committing to or whether I simply am unable to finish what I begin. I had intended to write more, but just don't feel like it now (kidding).