Well, I’ve been a neglectful blogger, haven’t I? I could conjure up all sorts of lovely excuses, but really, it’s not my fault when the white tigers maul the floating fishes on the screen saver. Stupid cats.
Anywho, so, Words. People. Characters. Pets. Blogs. Verbs. Grammar. Snorkel. Whatever am I supposed to talk about?
Some people call it writer’s block. I think of it rather differently. When you say “writer’s block,” it sounds as if there is a usual flow of creative energy — a current of mental electricity — that is temporarily stopped, then, sometime afterwards, started up again. For me, I sit and sit and sit and sit, and stare at the blank page. I can try to “just write it down,” as some writers recommend, but when words come out of my mind through my pen, they solidify like that waxy chocolate ice cream coating, and it’s extremely difficult to reshape or reform that decisive wording. That poor quality remains, and there is nothing I can do to bring it to a higher literary level. It’s better for me to wait for the “lightening” to strike: then, when that happens, I can’t write fast enough: words and thoughts come flowing, spilling, gushing out, tumbling over each other in their eagerness to be expressed. And that inspiration is the stuff I like, the stuff I am proud of, the stuff I think, “aha! This will make a great story someday!”
Someday. It’s a tricky place, that Someday. Is it just me, or is it impossible to set oneself a deadline and actually keep it? I tell myself: “I need to read X-number of pages a night, or X-number of minutes” … “I need to finish editing this story by the end of the month” … “I need to publish a novel within the year.” These are all *possibilities,* but they never become actualities. Why is that? It would be so easy to blame it on human nature … except, there are actually other humans out there who have successfully written, edited, and published books. Many books, in fact. Unless … they are not human. But I’m guessing this is not the case. Sigh.