Thought-Drive

I had a lot of thoughts, and then I had none. Lately, without writing on something weekly, I'm feeling fairly unproductive. Plans are being created almost everyday, but none of the little seeds have quite gestated into something more fertile. I am working on a few guest appearances to promote the latest novel, so that's something. It's a bit odd, answering something like the same questions over and over again, and being conscious of similar answers being already in existence, time stamped for eternity. One question I consistently choose to answer is about advice given to aspiring authors. How does one battle a mountain? Thoughts and opinions about the April release are trickling in. It seems to be about the same as last time, the vast majority of people who read it like it, and then there are a handful that don't for a smattering of reasons. I fear the editing might be somewhat impactful, and I'm not sure as to whether or not I should have fought harder. The next...

On Sunday I wrote, detouring the route that would take me to the coffee shop again in lieu of sitting in the room I like to call my office and writing there instead. I was happy with the end result and happier with the idea that I was finally, finally close to finishing. Last week I had discussed getting together with a writing friend and perhaps having dinner. On yesterday we did so, but afterwards the night was still young, his because Monday is his work schedule's version of Saturday, and mine because he is a constant reminder to me of what can happen if one simply leaves oneself open to possibility. After drafting and snipping several plans, we ended up taking our laptops to his office, or might I call it perch. That it is a nice, quiet area full of tables and chairs is not so remarkable, even to say that it's on the 19th floor of a luxury hotel. It's remarkable because my writing friend is terrified of heights. Yet that is his office. "I was really afraid the...

The insidious nature of distraction occurred to me the other day as possible excuses piled up. I have a box from a friend that I referred to as my "retirement," in that it contained a gaming system and a dozen different games. When I used to open the box and look inside, I could see a future where I sat next to a television and let my brain make dazzling chemicals as I exercised my fingers. A week at my new place, I finally opened the box and made that possible future a reality. It was as pleasant as I imagined. Then came the time when I would normally write. The coffee shop seemed unappealing, even the notion of writing itself was strange and foreign. I wanted to play. I'm happy to say that I did play, but only after I worked. I triumphed over that urge, but in leaping that hurdle I could better examine its dangerous nature. But while I was thinking about that I came across another new notion: talking shop. It's been more than a year (by a smidgen) since my ...

I should be writing, which is not to say that I'm blaming the blog. I'm making excuses. Yesterday I moved and my muscles have stretched and torn in ways they haven't in some time. And while they're excited, I'm much less so. It was a new kind of sleep in an old bed. My fear that I would be unable to rest fully and normally, despite whatever fatigue, came true. So now I'm doing the coffee shop thing, because of all the things I paid for and took care to reserve in advance, and pre-imagined, internet in my new place was not one of them. I won't say that this was completely accidental. Much like renting a place with stairs, I knew that making certain kinds of decisions would be more interesting, if not better, for me. Already I've been silently introduced to all sorts of interesting people dwelling in the palace of the dark bean (and I am not immune. I'm drinking crazy expensive orange juice). The only plan I have at this point is to intend to plan....

This morning I wrote, an event which by and large determines my reply to the question "how was your weekend" posed by my co-workers. I wrote, I will say, so it went alright. And normally I don't tend to this site at the same time, or on the same day, or in the same mindset that I tend to whatever novel, but this weekend has been one of firsts, so why not keep the trend running? The book comes out in six days, and I've had the final file in my inbox for over a week now. After the errata phase I was so worn out that I just wanted to distance myself, but curiosity, as always, reconstituted me. I was curious, you see, because the last time I had gone through the editing phase things were left out. And if you've been keeping up, you know that one of the main goals this time was to prevent that from happening again. So I doubled my effort, then I tripled it. But you know what they say about it taking two to tango. And this reason, by the by, is why there are so ma...

Twitter tells me I haven't been by in a while to post about what I'm doing. I guess I've also been somewhat neglecting this particular outlet as well. I have no excuses or reasons. But the words are coming. Blogging is like riding a bike I don't want to be seen on. It's got tassels and a basket; I'm not precisely in sync with what it advertises. Writing didn't happen last weekend, but oh the editing. The final proofing had to be done on the April release. Unlike last year, I actually had work to do, dialog to fix, mistakes to root out. I admitted a while back that last year I hardly even looked through the final proof. I thought to myself, "I've looked at this, what, fives times? Six? I'm sure by now it's fine." That wasn't the case, as I found out. Every time someone found a mistake, it seemed like I had to hear about it. Needless to say, I was motivated to prevent that from happening this time around. Consequently, I spent the...

At about six o'clock this morning I realized I made a glaring error in the plot-logic of one of my novels. It's not the first time, I'm sure, but this is certainly the most pronounced one that I can think of. It's also proof that even reading a previous book before writing its sequel is not a fail safe against such mistakes. I'm at a loss though for how to document it. The writing continues, but things are turning back around on themselves. Like the first whiff of decay from a spoiling bottle of milk, for the first time in a long time I can sense the expiration date of something I'm writing. I think the pace is to blame. One chapter a week has been the slowest I've written in years, and slow progress can be as deadly as no progress for a creative project. It stretches things out uncomfortably, and the more time is spent on it, the more other things "come up" and the more unrelated ideas begin to develop "on the back burner," the more ...