Dead pen
I really might have to update the tag for this thing. Weekly? Well, I wonder how accurate it could be if I have the thoughts, but don't write them down here. Once, I wrote about the concept of the consensus of thinking people determining objective reality. At least, it was one of the concepts I was toying around with in this story. I guess primarily it was about time travel.
But I digress. Recently, I was hired on to a project as an editor, and that function turned into more of a ghost writing capacity. It's a strange position, with no contract or officially capacity. I'm compensated, but really, it's more of a gig than a job. Either way, I'm learning a lot about other writers, and other writing. For the first time, I'm able to use some of my own experiences in anecdotes. Not to say that they're overly helpful, but at least I'm using them. Like novelty cutlery.
I submitted the contract for the fourth book, and got soft confirmation that the release is to be in August. I have some work to do on the author information page, and the primary edits before submitting things, but I've already spoken with the editor from the last book. She says she's excited, and I'm certainly looking forward to getting some consistency going. I have no idea how I'm going to work on this other project, and my own stuff at the same time. I sent the contract knowing this consciously, and not even with any feeling that it would all work out. I just pulled the lever and hoped it didn't make the floor drop out from under me.
This marks the first year in several that I've gotten the flu, or seriously sick at all. I had ample time to lay, quiet and alone, and contemplate how much time I was wasting. It was a lot like misery. Feeling well again, I've capitalized hardly any at all on my new lease on life. No new chapters, and while the notes on the short story compound, the work itself hasn't been done. Objectively, I'm reclining on laurel-shaped cushions. I feel like I'm mowing through the credit I earned by writing and writing and writing for the last few years, and that a few years from now I will lament all of my current inactivity. Time cannot help but tell, I guess.
So the query then, is something actually better than nothing? Maybe. Certainly, everything is better than something, and the divide between something and everything is different than the one between something and nothing. Something feels like a participation trophy. That's not really the hardware I'm in the market for.
So here's to moving again. Living. Breathing. Thinking. Laughing.
But I digress. Recently, I was hired on to a project as an editor, and that function turned into more of a ghost writing capacity. It's a strange position, with no contract or officially capacity. I'm compensated, but really, it's more of a gig than a job. Either way, I'm learning a lot about other writers, and other writing. For the first time, I'm able to use some of my own experiences in anecdotes. Not to say that they're overly helpful, but at least I'm using them. Like novelty cutlery.
I submitted the contract for the fourth book, and got soft confirmation that the release is to be in August. I have some work to do on the author information page, and the primary edits before submitting things, but I've already spoken with the editor from the last book. She says she's excited, and I'm certainly looking forward to getting some consistency going. I have no idea how I'm going to work on this other project, and my own stuff at the same time. I sent the contract knowing this consciously, and not even with any feeling that it would all work out. I just pulled the lever and hoped it didn't make the floor drop out from under me.
This marks the first year in several that I've gotten the flu, or seriously sick at all. I had ample time to lay, quiet and alone, and contemplate how much time I was wasting. It was a lot like misery. Feeling well again, I've capitalized hardly any at all on my new lease on life. No new chapters, and while the notes on the short story compound, the work itself hasn't been done. Objectively, I'm reclining on laurel-shaped cushions. I feel like I'm mowing through the credit I earned by writing and writing and writing for the last few years, and that a few years from now I will lament all of my current inactivity. Time cannot help but tell, I guess.
So the query then, is something actually better than nothing? Maybe. Certainly, everything is better than something, and the divide between something and everything is different than the one between something and nothing. Something feels like a participation trophy. That's not really the hardware I'm in the market for.
So here's to moving again. Living. Breathing. Thinking. Laughing.
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