I went to put in the changes in the manuscript which emerged after this morning’s dream review. I ended up instead reading the first 100 pages, fixing the odd typo. Astonishing experience. Like, I wrote this? It felt like I was reading a novel, and a lot of it seemed new to me. Yet, there was a yang part which remembered writing all of this. Fascinating experience. The other part, as I read, was how the main character changed and changed and changed, growing into the person I’m now so familiar with. Her voice changed. The novel’s voice changed. Just fascinating to reflect. Yes, just like driving through the dark, through a dark and stormy night of unfamiliar land, and then getting up in sunshine and looking back to see where you had been.
The Writing Moment
I suffered from writer’s block this past week. Yes, it’s real. Writer’s block exists. And it affected me.
I traveled with my wife to Pennsylvania to see Mom and celebrate her 90 natal day celebration and see family last week. I thought I’d write on the side. But no. Each time I sat down to write, my phone would ping with a text or ring with a call. I love ’em, of course, and was happy to do whatever favor was being asked, and appreciated getting updates, but The Writing Neurons were not as accepting.
Even on the flights, I had writer’s block. I pulled out my computer. Set it up. Began writing and typing.
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “How do I turn the volume up?”
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “I can’t get my tray up.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “Can you open this bottle for me?”
Tap, tap, tap.
Flight attendant: “Would you like more wine, sir?”
Yes, I know, I’m really stretching the complaining envelope here.
It’s good to be back in my cossetted, coveted writing routine. The Writing Neurons had become manic about getting more of the novel-in-progress written, pinging me via the headnet with new insights and plot points.
Now, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
The Writing Moment
I’ve been pursuing another novel’s completion. Been writing that puppy as I can while navigating the usual life interruptions. They don’t need counted down on two hands for you to understand all the life junk happening, right? Employ memory and imagination, and you’ll probably get it.
I’ve been sort of stymied. I’m not a plotter. I don’t outline a jot. I’m a solid pantser, leaping from slippery point to slippery point, following whims and impulses like they’re magic winds carrying me toward my destination. Except, suddenly the winds dropped me into a place I didn’t recognize. Not sure where to go, I did some editing, revising, and rewriting while muttering darkly to myself about being misled by mean muses and wondering what the hell had happened to the Writing Neurons. Besides those activities, I made some assumptions and conclusions about what I thought was wrong, how some things lacked enough substance and understanding to build upon, and conducted some writing exercises to stimulate me, myself, and I. I refer to these exercises as snapshots. They’re all just focus exercises to help me have greater understanding of whatever needs more understanding: setting, history, concept, characters, motivations, relationships, whatever you might find in a novel.
After four days of that, grappling with where I was, unsure where I was to go, I said to myself, “Come on, man. Pitter patter. Get ‘er at ‘er.” And miraculously, the muses and the Writing Neurons emerged today and ordered, “Start typing.” And then they guided me through story twists which I never saw. Well, I partly saw some of ’em. But some of the twists involved twists I’d come up with but didn’t know how to put into the story. Suddenly, click, yea! All came together.
Most satisfying writing day, it was. Sometimes it does pay just to sit down and write like crazy. Who do I need to bribe to get more of these?
The Writing Moment
It was ticks past one AM. I’d just come in from outside, from admiring star- and moonlight, when a skunk’s powerful smell chased me back inside, back in to close all the doors and windows. Then I sat in an office recliner, television on, re-writing a sentence from the novel in progress, shaping it in my head. I’ve been working on that line in my head for the last three days.
That’s how it’s been with this novel writing journey. I say to myself, for example, “Okay, today I will write the earthquake chapter.” Then I sit and tango with words through the scenes, stepping forward and then retracing my steps, adjusting sentences, tenses, pacing, padding dialogue, subtracting dialogue. Nothing is completely satisfying at this stage, the first draft. I’m still getting introduced to the characters, still peering in to their psyches, still engaging in “Aha!” moments. I move on from a chapter after the essence is captured, but as my writing mind recalls some passages, I go back, fix that piece, and then write on.
I began writing this novel on May 9, 2025. It’s now 209 pages and 55,000 words. Given to writing epics, I’m trying to keep this one below 250 pages. So I tell myself today, “Arc toward the ending. Write this chapter, and then land this novel.”
I see the upcoming scenes in pieces. Hear it in snatches. It all needs to be woven together.
Then there’s the ending. I see it in the distance, too, a final scene lit up like a monument, beckoning me, “Come on. Let’s do this thing.”
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Sunda’s Theme Music
Greetings from Ashlandia on Sunda, June 22, 2025. Speaking weatherly, it’s a better day today than yesterday. Sure, dark clouds still clot the sky with potentially ominous intentions. But sunshine is striking, driving the air into warmer realms. We’ve already broken past 60 F, three degrees above yesterday’s high. 72 F is in sight as a possibility.
Papi the butter butt floof is much happier. He’s snuggled into the vinca where just his tiny triangular orange face is marginally visible. Yesterday, he came in and stayed, finding a place to sleep until the rain, wind, and cold had gone away.
Well, Trump attacked another country but we’re not at war, oh no.Yet.We just bombed another country. Just a strategic ‘surgical’ strike on someone Trump thought was being a bully. On a whim. A hunch. Like a bet was being made.
A bet has been made. A bet that Iran’s nuclear program was more advanced than intelligence claimed. ‘We’ – because it was our government, acting on behalf of the United States, so we’re all involved, like it or not. So ‘we’ made a bet that we knew where the facilities were, and could reach and destroy. We bet that Iran and its allies would not respond. We made a bet that the mission would be successful and cow the Iranian leadership into not striking back. Will June 21, 2025, go down as an infamous act that triggered WWIII? Time will tell. If you bet on past history, this will get messy, but it might be down the road a few years.
We always knew Trump would attack. He’s been eager to use the military in whatever way he could to bolster his self-image. In the space of six months, he’s deployed troops against protestors and bombed another country, after, of course, threatening to invade Greenland and take it over and joking, “Maybe Canada should be our 51st state.” Ha, ha, what a brilliant funnyman. And then he claims he deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. Please, someone shut him up before I pee my pants from laughing.
Today’s musical offering comes from — ta da — Der Neurons. For some reason that isn’t plain to me, they were kicking the morning mental music stream with “Basket Case”, a 1994 song by Green Day.
Alright. Had a double helping of warm oatmeal for breakfast. Risked some blueberries in it. Mouth took it all well, knock wood. Out to the coffee shop to write out the stuff piling up in my head. I wish for good things for you today and all days. Cheers
The Writing Moment
I entertained myself over the last few days with novel writing. Unexpected directions and ideas were advanced. Muses introduced settings, characters, and moments I’d not anticipated.
Then, last night and this morning, panic. OMG, how does this all fit together? Some of it comes across as a little friggin’ nuts, as in crazy, insane, and maybe…cringe…ridiculous.
A brave contingency of being spoke up, trying to soothe me by reminding me, don’t worry, don’t overthink it, just get out of your own way and let it happen. This is good that you’re uncomfortable and nervous about what’s happening. They cited numerous writers who claim that if it’s going too well, it’s probably bad, ergo, feeling bad about progress is actually good.
Yes, sure, I try to accept that. Tell myself, swallow hard. Keep going. Don’t judge it until it’s done as one piece.
Easy for you to say, the neurotic doubters retort. Then all agree, let’s just go write like crazy, at least one more time. See where it takes us.
And away we go.
The Writing Moment
Finished editing and revising for the day on page 320 of 525 on what I consider the fifth revision. A sixth revision is planned. It’s needed for the music and levels.
Started a new novel today. I’d been thinking about it, and the words began coming to me last night, so I sat down to write those opening pages so they’re not buried in memory with other ideas. This is a corollary novel to the work in progress. The main character is level seven.
All very satisfying and challenging. Still, I look forward to being done (enough) with revisions that I’m happy and able to advance toward the next steps to publication with it.
Cheers
The Writing Moment
It’s just one of those days, unpredictable to me, when the writing effort gains sharper clarity and focus. I think the bottom line is that after weeks of thinking and writing and editing and revising, my understanding of the story as originally written crystallized and is now much higher. This feeds to greater focus and concentration, because I’m more certain about where I’m going. Which then generates greater writing energy and enthusiasm, pressing me to keep writing and editing, keep going, keep going.
But, writer’s butt is setting in. The cheeks are compaining about the chair’s hard surface. And though I’d go on, my stomach is querying, “Hey, are we going to eat anytime soon? Very hungry here. Hello? Anyone feel me?”
And my brain is harping, “You need to run errands. Go shopping and get needed supplies for yourself, the house, the wife, and the cats, and add gas to the car because it’s almost on empty.”
Moments like this are always bittersweet. So much was accomplished, leaving me feeling joyous over my progress. But I must stop. There will be other days. Some will be like a slog through knee deep mud, but there will be others like this, when I feel like I’m soaring.
In the muses we must trust, amen.
The Writing Moment
Every day for the last seven, I’ve sat down to write thinking, is this the day this novel’s first rough draft is finished? Then I write like crazy, and no, ‘The End’, is not found. I know the end but I’m a pantser. The territory between the beginning and end is a dark continent. I work my way across it to ‘The End’ with only vague navigational markers about where I need to go to get there. I set down ground rules but the characters and muses drive the novel.
That’s the way I like it.
The Writing Moment
It’s the blurt. This is the fun part of a new writing effort, when imagination spins up and the story rolls out like it’s on a fast-moving conveyor belt. Questions are asked about who and why, but answers are filled in fast. The story unwinds, teaching him what’s going on, and he spills it onto the page, connecting new dots, splicing in realized bits of stuffing about who these people are, why they’re together, their objectives and problems, their story.
He really doesn’t know where it’s going but that doesn’t matter. He’s writing, and it’s going somewhere. He’ll need to sweat some details later.
That’s later. Just enjoy the trip. Drink coffee and enjoy the trip.
Michael Seidel, writer 