Ahhh, so writing is supposed to be a slow process...

Measuring it in human years is beginning to be frustrating; perhaps I was meant to write stories for the trees.

I picked up a project started over a year ago and found it very difficult to get into the proper mindset. That bothered me... at the time the project was very important to me. I wonder if I'm bothered that I can't seem to get back into it, if it's because it is no longer important to me and should be.

Perplexing.

I read once that the best writing exercise you can do is to just write. Everyday. I wonder if this would count. You also have to be willing to "kill your children." That had a lot of loaded meanings. Such as not everything you write will be finished, or published or that the publishing process may force you to change you work in ways you would not have preferred. I suppose it is the "adult" transition of writing as a hobby and writing as a profession.

There are a number of types of writing I have sworn off without trying as well. Such as column writing. In my mind it was too contractual, too restrictive, not creative enough. But is any of that true or different from what I believe I would prefer. Would a publisher not try and put contracts or pressure in place for new books? Would the scope or plot of my story not restrict itself in some ways? Isn't any work of literature only as creative as it's author and not the subject? I know I certainly have plenty of opinions to voice.

Food for thought; perhaps writing here more often will keep my brain from starving.

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.