This isn’t turning out to be the week I expected it to be, though that’s not a bad thing. It means this blog post isn’t going to to turn out to be the post I’d intended, either, something I’m sure a few folks will be happy with. You see, I’m off from work this week, struggling not to check in or respond (already at -1 on that front), purportedly with a goal in mind. I’d intended to get that novel I wrote this year ready to send out in the next few weeks. On Christmas week. In between spending time with the family. And birthdays. And obligations.
Fool.
How could I forget about the late night prep for Christmas? The barrage of obligations and errands that make the holiday work? Sure, I only do 1/10th of what my wife does to prepare for it, but there was plenty there to distract. And then, on those times I have sat down to work on it, something else entirely has happened.
I’ve been writing.
Notice I didn’t say editing, or proofing, or revising. Writing. New, off the cuff, fresh stories. I’ve finished two short stories, and am winding my way into the final stretch on a third. I’d be making more progress if I actually set out to do something, but these are coming at me when I least expect them. A paragraph here, a sentence there, followed by a page of word flow. If nothing else, this time off is helping me to identify when my writing times are these days. When I was younger (oh, wasted youth…), I stylized myself as a night owl. That was the time for me, I’d say, late at night when the moon and stars were out and the world was quiet.
Maybe its the kids, maybe its just getting older, but in recent years I’m finding the post-sunset hours to be just draining. My brain doesn’t want to hash out a story at that point in the day; I’m usually exhausted and ready to veg before drooling my way to unconsciousness. Granted, a decade of working early hours (at work by 5/5:30 until I got the gig with ThinkGeek) has probably also contributed – I seem to do my best writing sometime between first waking up and before lunch. Anything later is painful, like
Three stories in a week. Wow. Its been so long since I’ve had that kind of output that I almost can’t remember it. I used to be able to pump out the words, story after story, failed novel after failed novel. I often look back with a wondrous sense of confusion, not understanding how its possible that I used to be able to create new things so rapidly if these days I struggle to get out a few words at a time. Of course, all I have to show for those efforts are word counts and volume – none of that has ever been published, so maybe in this case volume doesn’t equate to quality. Looking at the stories I’ve just written, I’m hoping to see publication in 2013. Maybe this is the year that I balance that equation, finding the tipping point between volume and quality that metre out to success.
Either way, my brain is shutting down, which can only mean that the sun must have set by now. Later!
