I wish I could be as cool as you...

Oh, I am so not a cool kid.

Thursday night. Here I sit. Cheap desk. Cheap white wine - Simply Naked Pinot Grigio. Notebook, paper, and purple pen. Laptop. And loads of books. Poetry, philosophy, books on writing, books on names, books on tarot, books on depression. This is what I choose to be closest to me.

Cat scratching at the door. But I've locked her out because in here is my world of fantasy and there's no room for tigers like her. I only have room for loud music and words. Piles and oodles and heaps of words. Glorious words. Melodramatic words. Poignant words. Enthusiastic and insane words.

So, no, I'm not cool. I'm not at the club. I don't have a roomful of friends laughing at something I just said. I'm not drinking beer in a bar and watching the ball game. (Though I do have the updates flashing on my phone!)

Instead, I'm the slave to a vulpine muse. I'm tethered to a lighthouse full of people only I've met. And I'm happy.

So, so happy.

Progress (or, rather, lack thereof)

Holy dairy cows, the past couple weeks (read: two months) have been crazy.

I went through the whole moving process - that took about a month total of looking for a place, signing a lease, packing, moving, and now we're still in the process of settling in. I've given up two hours of my days to driving back and forth from work which is just fun.  

And I'm still struggling to write. I've been journaling a lot more... though not in my usual detail or with any of my usual - a-hem - flair. And obviously I've been neglectful of this blog (as well as two others). It's an uphill battle as they say.

At least I'm up in New Hampshire for the weekend. Wonderful family times can't be beat. Good for recharging, etc. I need it after this week in particular. I got stung by a bee for the first time in about twenty years. No anaphylactic shock, but my finger did swell up to a glorious size for three days. Cue me going into a Benadryl induced coma and losing a bunch of time. No writing. No working. No exercise. Zero progress - unless you count healing insect damage.

My motivation for everything in still high, though I feel pretty frustrated. I've been quite good about keeping my food and fitness journal (it's a Star Wars moleskine that I titled "How to Become a Jedi Like Luke Skywalker"). I've been writing something... almost every day. Even when it's only 100 words. And I've been thinking about my writing almost non-stop. I pulled out a couple of old books: How to Write A Damn Good Novel by James Frey and Bird By Bird by Annie Lamott.

They both, of course, have sections addressing the problem of writer's block. Typical stuff, but good to hear. It happens to everyone, blah blah. Don't let it stop you, blah blah. If you're a writer, you'll figure out a a way through it, blah blah. Mostly it's a matter of hitting your head on the keyboard until something falls out.

Anyway, that's what's up with me for now. What up with all of you? Any of you who stop by and read this at point or another, that is....

Back to the Lighthouse

I've been struggling with getting words out of my head lately. I'm not sure why. It's frustrating and depressing to feel like my voice is gone. I don't think it's a permanent thing, but it's definitely been affecting my ability to finish Wings of Destiny - an unfortunate fact that is causing everyone I know to constantly ask me that horrible question: "How's your novel coming?"

Okay, okay. I know I told everyone that I would be done with this book by now. I know I promised myself to buckle down and finish. But here's the thing: I am buckled down. I am trying to finish. I am stuck in Luke Skywalker's head apparently. Too much trying, not enough doing. But how is a writer sans her voice supposed to finish her damn book? If my muse was tangible, I'd throttle him. For realsies.

I guess most people would say I have writer's block. I'm not sure that's true. I can brainstorm easily enough. In fact, in the past two weeks, I've come up with grand and wonderful ideas, plots, and characters for at least three of my other books. I even had a small breakthrough with an issue I've been having with the plot of Wings. However, none of that plotting and world-building did a lick of good for my actual writing. I just came back from spending the weekend (mostly) with my best writing friends, usually an inspiring atmosphere for getting words down, and I got approximately five sentences of real writing done the entire time. On the other hand, I also reread an entire manuscript of mine, gave it an entirely new plot, fixed a conflict with another manuscript, and wrote a new and improved antagonist into another. Not to mention, I brainstormed a new story with said best writing friends.

Sigh.

Bigger sigh.

Sigh with a (headdesk) thrown in for good measure.

This is the time when I try going back to my lighthouse. If you're new to this whole thing, or just don't remember all of my crazy-weird methods of keeping sane (or is it insane?), my lighthouse is where all of my characters from all of my stories go when a) I am not using them or b) they are hiding from me. I wrote a post describing it awhile ago: http://mysticalminx.blogspot.com/2011/05/subconscious-theater.html So on my laptop I have a document called "Subconscious Theater" that I write in as a therapeutic way to figure out what's going on with all of these clamoring voices inside my head - and perhaps why they're not coming through clearly.


P.S. I'm also big into running as a new way to clear my mind of reality and immerse myself in my own worlds.
I'm going to go try that now.

P.P.S. It sort of worked? I feel like blogging more at least. -_-