Tag Archives: angst

Ahem…shall we try again?

16 Tuesday Jul 2019

Posted by in Hope, Writing

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Once upon a time there was a Writer who stopped writing. She’d finished the third book in her trilogy (Wisdom Court, that is), and almost as if a switch had been thrown, her Brain nestled into the overstuffed chintz chair now crowding the small sitting room in her head where, nearby, a nice cup of tea was steaming. Noting her lack of arms, the Brain signaled the Writer, who reached for the TV remote. “Merde,” muttered the Brain.

“I wonder what’s on the telly,” sighed the Brain. (There was no explanation for her cozy English accent.)

Lots of things were on the telly. MSNBC news programs; Call the Midwife; Bosch; John Wick movies; Law and Order reruns; TNT-chopped versions of The Hunger Games; the Kevin Bacon collection. Netflix and Amazon and Hulu were crawling with movies and edgy comedy and eye glazing sophistication. And horror. The Brain overdosed on 911.

Tons of books presented themselves: Louise Penny’s Inspector Armand Gamache books; Lawrence Block books (even a new Matt Scudder!); Bruce Most and Cassie Miles and Douglas D. Hawk books; Nora Roberts books; Charlaine Harris books. The Mueller Report. Becky Clark books.

The Brain grew fat and slow, pickled with distractions. “It’s all research,” she  averred as the Writer’s fingers lost their agility and the Brain’s ability to spell suffered. “I’ll be so ready when I return to my oeuvre.” At the slow, sloppy thought, the Writer raised a brow, which she’d never been able to do before, but nothing came of it.

As summer finally took hold, the Writer began to pull a Camille, finding pots in the basement, buying plants to put in them. Tending her garden aroused a thin hope for A Better Way in the Brain, and the flood of books and films and television shows slowed to a trickle.

Came the day when the Writer looked inward, when she saw the fragile Brain struggling from the grip of the overstuffed chintz chair. “We’ll resuscitate the blog,” the Brain whispered, no trace of British accent to be heard.

Tears welled in the Writer’s eyes. “We’ll get back out there. We’ll think of something to write about.”

They decided to celebrate with a nice cup of tea.

 

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Crawling out of the hole…

24 Tuesday Apr 2018

Posted by in snark, Uncategorized

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I’ve been hiding in my cocoon of late. Lots of reasons, none lethal, but as spring screws around with brightening the landscape, I’m beginning to peer out at the world. I replaced my lost cell phone (see previous post) and, thanks to the help of my technically more advanced daughter, have managed to get most of the attachments I want to take up residence in the thing. Now all I need to do is to think of something to say.

I haven’t hung out at Wisdom Court much lately. There’s a character knocking at the door to my mind, but she hasn’t yelled loudly enough yet for me to pay her much attention. She’s too cheerful, and I don’t feel like dealing with that at the moment. I’ll let her come in soon, if only because I need writing to take me over again, but it’s cold again today and my study is a pit. I have years’ worth of files to subdue and slip into slots. If I could capture the cat hair festooning  the furniture, I could make an afghan to keep me warm.

I need to send out a newsletter, but am missing an inspiring message. “Please buy my books,” doesn’t cut it. If Spring will finally extend herself into a hug across the land, maybe my limping brain cells will line up in formation and respond with grace instead of the post-winter whine I hear in my head every morning. My brain has shrunk into a petty nitpicker and nothing’s better at killing the creative spirit. (Yes, that’s an excuse for not writing.)

weenmess

And how’s your day going?

 

 

Looking for the spark…

06 Tuesday Feb 2018

Posted by in Writing

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It’s February and the ground is brown. Leaves left in piles for critters seeking refuge are dry (isn’t the whole state dry?) and they whisper as roaming breezes search for somewhere to hide. It’s February and the air is hard and cold. A few creeping myrtle leaves in a rock garden, liverish green and curled into commas, hint at new life. Nobody’s buying it.

My imagination, some call her Fancy, is perched on a headstone just inside the cemetery, throwing pebbles at a crooked row of  markers. She hasn’t hit any yet. Her knees poke through her jeans, and her mud-brown jacket is threadbare. “I wish you’d come up with a decent idea,” she mutters when she runs out of ammo. Her chin jerks toward the pathetic line of crosses. “One you can’t bury in ten minutes.”

She throws rocks at everything I come up with. “The sun’s going down,” I announce. “We ought to go.”

She shoots me such a look. “It’s one-thirty-two, you dork.” Her arm lifts to point above us at the shrouded sun. “We’ve been out here for less than an hour. You can’t hole up all day and let Nostalgia get in your head. She’s deadly!”

I hunch my shoulders and turn away. “I need to get the tax prep done.”

“There’s a creative idea.”

Fancy brushes past me and I smell cloves, her signature scent. Maybe I should dab clove oil behind my ears. It might jump-start some brain cells.

“Come on, then,” she calls back to me from the gate. “While you work on taxes, I’ll watch old movies. It’ll give me something–anything–to think about.” Her tone is grim.

“Bitch,” I whisper as I follow her. She always grabs at fun while I get stuck with the humdrum. And image floats into my mind. A man humming as he cleans a gun. He has blood on his hands.

“Hmmm.”

 

 

 

October Redux and the wandering mind…

26 Thursday Oct 2017

Posted by in Hallowe'en, Life

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I meant to give a heads up to y’all regarding last year’s post, 31 Days of Spooky Stuff leading into Halloween. (Recycling is a good thing.) Somehow the idea slipped out of my grasp. I just found it under a pile of bones in the long, dark stairway to the basement.

I have been struggling with the fourth Wisdom Court novel since summer, easily my least productive writing time of the year. Something about the plants growing in the garden, as well as insects exploring tiny jungles among trees and bushes call my attention elsewhere. And then there are birds. I’m distracted by the life happening all around me, from critters to children, and the plot points swimming around in my head spill out of my ears onto the encrusted floor.

Then comes the change. The solstice begins to build shadows in the corners, and the sun sidles south, peeking coyly over the horizon come morning, forgetting its bursting greetings in July. Leaves turn into gold coins.photodune-5768835-horse-park-ranch-in-the-fall-s

The nights turn chilly and darkness competes with light, often winning the contest. Ideas edged in fear and dread scurry for cracks in the wall, hiding themselves during the lengthening nights. The landscape shrinks and shapes become distorted.

Muddy beach and dead forest

Soon will come the mix of costumes and greed, of the somber and of fear. We will acknowledge the thin membrane between the living and the dead and we’ll gobble  candy to seal the deal.

Happy Halloween…

 

halloween-pumpkins-pd

 

 

 

 

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Circumvention, like circumcision, means shortcuts–ewww!

23 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Avoiding writing, Random Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing

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Never look a gift analogy in the mouth. (Seriously. Too gross.)

After the last post, so filled with angst and obscure Word issues, I hit “Return” a few times, typed in “Chapter Twenty-Five,” and kept going. There’s more than one way to skin a Header command. (Geez, that sounds even worse than the post title.)

The new Last Chapter continues wending through the moors of invention, and, after consulting the runes, I’m back to scaring myself because the only way I can wrap up the book is to pull ghosties and ghoulies out of the closet–as in storage, not sexuality. Today, whilst receiving a wonderful massage–thanks again, Karen–and gently pushing out of my mind the guilt from not posting here often enough, I realized I’ve passed up many possible blog posts about my writing process.  I’ve been hiding it in the closet, too, along with discarded characters, weak descriptions, and failed plot elements.  It’s so dark in there, I have a hell of a time even finding the damned process.

I’ve thought it better to occasionally sound as though I know what I’m doing than to let people see the disorganization and interruptions, the endless flailing for a decent sentence, the bizarre rituals to crank up what passes for my imagination.  Writing has always been for me a hodgepodge of hard work, wishful thinking, and some small talent. Regardless of what happens in the book business itself, the effort to put words on the page remains the same. Every time I get in a tizzy about self-publishing vs. pursuing agents, or how I need to format my two mysteries into e-book mode, my word-count slows and I feel bad.

The blog is a quick way to short-circuit angst and redouble my efforts to bring Wisdom Court to life. Every writer I know ultimately gives as advice the old, true saw: Plant your ass on the chair and your hands on the keyboard.  Write. We can’t sell what we haven’t finished.