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Posts Tagged ‘blogging’

Should I let Algernon die, or let him suffer at the whims of his evil brother?

Even cats have trouble with the blank page.

Here’s what I’ve learned about writing in the last three years. When everyone else is:

  1. watching TV, I am probably writing.
  2. sleeping, I am usually writing and editing.
  3. on FaceBook, I’m…ooops…gotta get back to writing.
  4. blogging, I am writing, wishing I had more time to blog.
  5. shopping, I am revising a chapter.
  6. texting and tweeting, I am talking to my MC.
  7. eating, I am eating but it’s at my computer so I can catch up on email, blogs and news.
  8. reading, well,  I might be reading.
  9. showering, I am showering, but usually in writing mode with no way to write down the brilliant idea that came to me.
  10. working out, I am exercising my brain wishing it would burn 300 calories an hour.
  11. cutting the grass, I am letting the grass grow to revise another chapter, or paragraph, or sentence.
  12. cooking, I am throwing something in the crockpot to go revise another chapter, or paragraph, or sentence.

You gotta love writing to be this crazy!

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When do you let the cat out of the bag?

In the beginning I didn’t tell anyone I was writing a book.  I thought it sounded rather pompous, and of course, I didn’t know if I had the guts to sustain it, but I kept hacking away, in the dead of night for going on 3 years. Whatever else happens, I am pretty happy about not giving up and not starting six different other projects to keep me from finishing one, which is more the norm for me.

I didn’t tell  anyone hardly anyone what I was up to until the 5th revision and my book had a finished sort of feel to it. Before admitting my nocturnal activities, writing was a clandestine affair. I might be wrong, but I doubt if quilters and knitters have this same kind of guilty pleasure. Gradually I started answering the question, “what have you been up to?” honestly, because at some point, without even knowing when, I started to feel like a writer.

I knew it was a serious affair when I wanted to write instead of watch TV and I talked to my characters in the shower.

But can I call myself a writer if I haven’t published? My rational self says ‘of course!” but doubts set in as I wonder, what if I have only one story? What if I can’t publish this one.  What if I tell people I’m writing a book, nothing comes of it and I fall flat on my face.

So be it. It doesn’t matter any more.  

The hurdle is one of confidance. I’m thinking that Confidance waxes and wanes like the moon. Some days, I feel great about the book I’m working on. I’m excited, even after umpteen rewrites. I think it’s a good story, yada yaha.  But when I spend two hours eeking out the details of three paragraphs, I think..geez, what am I doing? How can it take so long to get it right? Maybe I’m not a ‘real’ writer, whatever that means.

I wonder if Kate DeCamillo or (insert your favorite author) spends hours agonizing over the right POV, voice, exposition, and/or dialogue. If I was a real writer, wouldn’t this get easier? Should I just quit and take up knitting?

Problem is, much as I appreciate a good sweater, I have no passion for knitting.

Am I writer? or is this just a cheap form of therapy?

But writing draws me like a magnet and I can’t stop now. I’m working it for all its worth because it keeps me sane. As I write that, I know it’s true, even though it sounds crazy. Writing is a form of contemplation that allows me to process life. It helps me slow down and examine the raw data that surrounds me in visible and invisible forms.

I’ve come to think of writing as taste testing the stew of oddments, profane, divine, related and seemingly unrelated, that come hurtling towards me at quark speed.  When I write, I sort it out, spice it up, stir it and add ingredients from other pots.

But enough of  food metaphors. On my own terms, in my own time, writing simply lets me breathe.

——-

What about you? Are you tongue-tied about calling yourself a writer?

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“What are you writing?” asks my cat, who leads a double life as my muse.

“A blog post,” I answer.

There’s small silence while he considers admitting his ignorance. “O.k. what’s a blog post?”

“Hmmm,” I murmur. How do I explain this to a cat? “Blogging is writing down your thoughts on subjects you are passionate about,” I begin.

“I can understand that,” he says.

“Then you publish it on the internet where, with the click of a mouse, it flies off into cyberspace and you hope someone will catch it and read it and maybe even write back to you.”

This time there’s a longer silence. Whether it’s the clicking mouse reference or just the concept that has him most confused is hard to tell. I wait to see if his curiosity will win out over his need to appear all-knowing.

“What’s cyberspace?”

Now I’m in for it. What can I tell him when I don’t really understand it myself? I give him an evasive answer. “It’s kind of a mystery.”

“I love a good mystery. Go on.”

“All I can do is try to give you an analogy. You are familiar with analogies?”

He gives me that look; the kind that means the question is too ridiculous to answer.

“Cyberspace is a very ethereal place. You can’t see it or feel it, but there is so much going on out there. Millions and billions and gazillions of words and thoughts and feelings that people have typed onto their keyboard to share with others. Friends and strangers. Lost words swirling in a vast unseen world. Words waiting to be found. Words begging to be read by someone who will understand their passion.”

My muse finishes the analogy for me. “So, cyberspace must be something like cosmic space and the words are bits of stardust floating everywhere. No,” he pauses as he collects his thoughts on the subject. “More than stardust. Words and thoughts clustered together like galaxies waiting to be discovered.”

“Oh, that’s perfect! Can I use that in my blog?”

“I think you already have.”

He purrs and I scratch behind his ears. Having a cat for a muse is nice.

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