Thought-Drive

I'm in a productive place today. Sunday, I wrote after almost deliberately putting it off on Saturday, and coming up with a weak excuse on Friday. As the weekend progressed, the chapter in question occurred to me in the morning and in my still moments in the afternoon until I could almost recite it. Sitting down and putting it on paper was more therapeutic than it was strictly work-a-day. And I guess that makes me sound (more) crazy, but I stand firm on my position that this is a good thing. The drafted chapter marks my fifteen thousandth approximate word for this project, which isn't a quarter of a way through, but it still feels like something to celebrate. I discovered that at least for this particular series, I always start with several, disparate plots, and then wind them together like a stiff braid as the story goes on. I think when it's all said and done I'll refer to this technique as "something I just came up with," though I'm sure any number of

A few weeks ago a co worker complimented me on the poetry I had up on my website . Suave and debonair as always, my reply was something mystifying like "Er... uh... yeah." Nothing like praise you don't anticipate, I guess. It made me want to put more stuff up on the site, or at least update it more regularly. Currently, I make changes a couple times a season, if that. Guess I'll have to get better at that, too, presenting myself I mean. The writing progresses, if still sluggishly. I feel like the edits to the fantasy book are doable, but will also be extensive. Something I didn't much anticipate was how the editor's comments affect the writing I'm doing now. Part of me thinks, "Oh, well, if I just write differently now then I'll have to do less editing on the back end" or worse, "Oh wait, you're about to use passive voice, tsk tsk." The words at those points don't come as easily. I find myself actually thinking about the w

The desktop having definite issues is in its final stages, which is to say I haven't turned it on in weeks and I'm slowly weening myself off of using it. With that though, came the trappings of a very negative situation where I wouldn't be writing. I think like most people, I made plans to make myself feel better, but had little to no earnest commitment at following through: I'd stay after work and write, or go in early, reserve days just to hang about the library. Fate intervened though, and I ended up getting Word on my laptop so I could help a friend out with his academic work. At that point it was easy (easier). All I had to do was open the program and write. And then... So I'm pretty happy to say that the writing got done. It was strange to feel the difference in the key strokes, the placement of my hands, the sounds in my ears as I pecked along, but I made it through. I sigh a bit though to think that for the next few months (at least) this will be the new r

My mentor told me a story once about an old transient author (redundant) writing poetry on napkins in a bar. The man would scribble his verses down and do nothing with his stories. He didn't talk to anyone while doing so, or socialize much at all. One day, an inquisitive type found one of his little balled up passages and praised the man, asking him how it was that he was able to write so clearly and with such truth. He was shocked to find out the old man had no family and no place, given his gift. The reply, my mentor told, was something to the effect of "I love the individual, but I hate people." As usual, my mentor didn't tell me much of what I was supposed to get out of the story; he was a good person to learn from, I think. So, Google has reached out and sunk its teeth into social networking (finally finished with its meal of Mapquest). Before they made their little engine public, a friend was nice enough to invite me to join. I only made a profile today though