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Posted by mcummings

Sorry its been so quiet on here lately. We've just been through the double header of birthdays, the first few weeks of school, and all the baggage that that carries with it. Need something to make you smile? Imagine this: six years old and dressed herself. Leopard print top, plaid skort, boots. I think this is her favorite outfit. Its also school pictures day.

Then there's the wonderful world of writing. I wish I had something more productive to say on that subject. About a month ago, I threw in the towel on writing (no worries, my friend Christine caught the towel and is holding it safe - or in ransom - for me). What I was writing was feeling incredibly derivative and shallow. There was a lot going on, but for me, no sense of depth or emotion motivating it. Oh, I knew so and so was motivated by her deep seated but misguided and misdirected thirst for revenge, but that thirst never showed up in the story. Not even a draught. And while that may be all fine and good to fix in the second draft, that wouldn't fix the feeling that I was just rehashing other people's good ideas poorly.

“The first draft of anything is shit”.

Earnest Hemingway

Sure, there's nothing new to write about, everything is a retelling of the primordial tales, but this was seriously inexcusable rehashing. And I couldn't even justify it. There were gimicks that were there only for when they were useful, serious big time McGuffins.

And then there was the greatest crime of all. Each attempt at the novel project may have been a new story, but it carried with it the baggage of everything that went before it. Each one was set on the same world, with the same rules, identifying names, places, and landmarks, leading to a stifling writing experience. Yes, I realize that this helps the final story feel like it takes place in a real world, resonating  true. It is also incredibly constraining, reeling back creativity to fit within the confines of an already established, albeit unpublished, milieu.

Some people have trunk novels. Me? I have trunk universes. I've got the science fiction universe in which sentient plants are pitted against man while ancient beings live hidden within singularities where the laws of physics are more to their liking; fantasy worlds where magic comes and goes in seasons, each season lasting for years, sometimes centuries. These are the trunk worlds of M. P. Cummings.

And its time for me to close the lid.

I haven't completely given up on writing, though. A few small embers still glow, a few new stories are slowly being written. Maybe I should change hobbies, pick something simple like nanite construction or advanced biochemical manufacturing for fun and profit.

Nah. Where's the fun in that?