That season
A little over a week since the last update, which is strange because I knew that, and yet did not find myself here until now, New Year's Eve eve. I think every year I introspectively rediscover some dingy spot on the china white finish of the holiday season; I never stare at it for long, but it does show up in my dreams. Fortunately, that led me to turn to my writing for distraction, and consequently, my goal of reaching chapter 20 before I returned to work is very much on pace. Today I will draft chapter 19, and I still have a few more days off next week (sometimes, working at a school is marvelous).
Though, a few of my friends haven't been so lucky (in regards to productivity). One friend actually revealed to me that cabin fever is real, or rather, is not the fear of being stuck in the woods cut off from all internet access (like being stuck in a log cabin, witness protection-style). Apparently, cabin fever more pertains to being stuck inside for an extended period of time. In his case stuck in his apartment, waiting, stuck in his car, driving, then stuck in a house, having dinner, for three days straight. I could actually hear him going crazy over the phone. I examined the walls of my own room, and recounted how long I hadn't stepped outside, and chalked it up to people just being different.
Another friend was having troubles of a writerly kind. And again, I both could not empathize with him and thought that if such a condition afflicted me, given my lifestyle, I'd be in a very bad way. My mentor back in college, during our writing workshop, would often times address questions about writer's block. No one bothered to explain what it was, because everyone assumed that each of us had been struck with it at some point. So, my professor moved on to how to alleviate it. At least I'm pretty sure he did. I never remembered any of those discussions because the information wasn't all that useful to me. But that's what my friend had, and it was a little sad to be unable to help him, except to hurl empty platitudes in his direction. He expressed a desire to get lost somewhere, and just write for days, weeks on end. I supposed that while people are different, they can also be very similar in certain ways.
My latest published story on fictionaut has been up for a couple weeks. Going back to it after some years, I was happy with it, and even happier with the comment a kind person left, complimentary of both the story and my skill. I also did another story for the sports site, and even had it in mind to write another but a familiar malaise struck me then, similar to Monday when I was going to update this blog again. It was going to be about the spirit of the fan and the spectator sport that is attending football games, but it just seemed a bit out of place, and boring. Perhaps that's what writer's block feels like.
In any event, I've been busy at points this week, driving about and doing favors for people or getting up late because of poor decisions made the previous evening, and a chapter has been drafted and edited each day regardless. As always, in this one, specific, socioeconomically unproductive way, I feel a tad unstoppable. I plan on going to bed early tomorrow night, so I suppose I'll count my blessings now, and say goodbye to the year. I loved it, and hated it, because there was so much room for improvement.
Though, a few of my friends haven't been so lucky (in regards to productivity). One friend actually revealed to me that cabin fever is real, or rather, is not the fear of being stuck in the woods cut off from all internet access (like being stuck in a log cabin, witness protection-style). Apparently, cabin fever more pertains to being stuck inside for an extended period of time. In his case stuck in his apartment, waiting, stuck in his car, driving, then stuck in a house, having dinner, for three days straight. I could actually hear him going crazy over the phone. I examined the walls of my own room, and recounted how long I hadn't stepped outside, and chalked it up to people just being different.
Another friend was having troubles of a writerly kind. And again, I both could not empathize with him and thought that if such a condition afflicted me, given my lifestyle, I'd be in a very bad way. My mentor back in college, during our writing workshop, would often times address questions about writer's block. No one bothered to explain what it was, because everyone assumed that each of us had been struck with it at some point. So, my professor moved on to how to alleviate it. At least I'm pretty sure he did. I never remembered any of those discussions because the information wasn't all that useful to me. But that's what my friend had, and it was a little sad to be unable to help him, except to hurl empty platitudes in his direction. He expressed a desire to get lost somewhere, and just write for days, weeks on end. I supposed that while people are different, they can also be very similar in certain ways.
My latest published story on fictionaut has been up for a couple weeks. Going back to it after some years, I was happy with it, and even happier with the comment a kind person left, complimentary of both the story and my skill. I also did another story for the sports site, and even had it in mind to write another but a familiar malaise struck me then, similar to Monday when I was going to update this blog again. It was going to be about the spirit of the fan and the spectator sport that is attending football games, but it just seemed a bit out of place, and boring. Perhaps that's what writer's block feels like.
In any event, I've been busy at points this week, driving about and doing favors for people or getting up late because of poor decisions made the previous evening, and a chapter has been drafted and edited each day regardless. As always, in this one, specific, socioeconomically unproductive way, I feel a tad unstoppable. I plan on going to bed early tomorrow night, so I suppose I'll count my blessings now, and say goodbye to the year. I loved it, and hated it, because there was so much room for improvement.
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