Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Bemoaning that the novel and series continues expanding (“This is taking forever!”), I was thinking of something like this quote for myself last night. “Just keep typing,” I told myself. “Don’t rush it. When it’s done, it’s done.”
Meanwhile, I thought Steinbeck was quoted as saying that finishing a novel is like having a death in the family. I decided to look for that quote this morning, but found the other one instead. It’s almost like it’s all part of a plan.
I like the sun
I like the rain
I like how the day
smells this way
I like the breeze
that’s sometimes a wind
I like the scents
that tease and spin
I like the hours passing me by
and the time spent
with no one asking me why
The distance calls me
I try to see
who it is and what they want from me
the distance calls me
from outside
full of hate and telling me lies
the distance calls me
the people I know
urging me to love and telling me to grow
the distance calls me
without knowing why
I hide away and slip inside
I like this quote. Writing is a relationship with my mind, and not just an escape or an attempted career path.
It’s always why I like having dreams at night, and remembering and thinking about them. They’re another part of the relationship with my mind.
It was one of those nights. My muse didn’t recognize my need for sleep and refused to issue permission to shut down my brain and close my eyes.
Such times are productive, even though I feel like shit in the morning. I’m exaggerating for effect, of course; I really don’t know how shit feels. I feel guilty, implying that shit feels terrible. For all I know, shit feels great.
Sorry for the shitty detour. I know, terrible humor. Hey, I just confided that I had a rough night. Grant me some latitude.
Back to the muses’ nocturnal gallop through my mind. I’d just been complimenting my muse (or muses – I think there’s a congress of muses within me) about the pleasant week of systematic writing established and reflecting on the progress made. When last I left off writing yesterday, I had a damn good idea of where I was next going.
I’m still going there, but the dark silence of night brought out the muses like they were in heat. Instead of allowing me to sleep, wake up today, and go walk and write to work out details, the muses began shotgunning details into me. The people look like these. These are their names. They’re all women, and —
It’s not polite to ignore your muse, and it’s rude to tell them to shut up. I obliged them by listening. When I thought they’d finished, I attempted to use one of my honored processes to engage sleep. I thought it worked, too, but then, the muses thundered out anew.
When sleep and I finally met, quicksilver dreams rushed in, flashing kaleidoscopes of scenes and words. Awakening, I had a lot to think about between dreams and night writing, and a desire for about four more hours of sleep.
Got a big ol’ cup of dark, unadulterated caffeine loaded coffee steaming in a mug to my right. Time to write like crazy and get all this stuff down, at least one more time.
Chug, chug. My muse is a dependable locomotive engine this week. I sit down, and the words and scenes chug out. It’s not wholly effortless. I hit some grades that slow the pace but the muse keeps chugging, and I keep going. Writing-like-crazy bursts are followed by introspective editing and revising to get to the point where scenes and chapters are completed, and then I go on to the next one.
Once upon a time, I would have thought, hey, it’s written, revised, edited, and finished. Submit and publish, thank you. Now I’ve learned, naw, that writing, editing, refining, and polishing is part of my writing process to achieve completing a first draft. When the draft is done, the work of editing, revising, and re-writing begins. I usually find kinks caused by story or character inconsistencies, flimsy story-telling, or awkward phrasing that requires thought and deeper processing. Sometimes I find a bridge missing that I’ve marked to write later.
But I’ve learned from editing and revising in the past, and I’m more mindful of my process. I can think through the process, story, and words on the fly more than I used to be able to do, a result that comes from application, application, application, via writing every day. It’s all part of a immersive, relaxing process. Writing is my therapy and sanctuary.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Here, here.
