Blargh

Okay, so I’m being totally schizophrenic. I’m here! I’m not. I’m here! Aaannd now I’m not. Like herpes. And I don’t wanna be like herpes. Especially when considering the whole romance-writing factor, since nothing kills a good romance like “Hey, Baby, how about you and me go find ourselves a secluded spot and swap some venereal disease?” Ugh. *Shudders*

As you might have guessed, it’s been an interesting day. Or week, rather. Er–better make that the last few months. I still haven’t written anything fiction in I don’t know how long, though I’ve picked up a bit of journaling again and I’m still reading like mad. My characters are also starting to crawl back into my head, stretching and yawning. Many are demanding coffee. A love of all things caffeinated seems to be a common theme among my characters. I’m a little leery of giving any to them. Once they’re fully awake, no doubt they’ll make life more chaotic.

CAROLINA NORTH, of all things, is demanding attention again. I sense a full rewrite, especially after the Infamous Kate W’s (who needs to get a site so I have somewhere to link this t0!) super-awesome presentation at the RWA meeting on enneagrams, which is a personality typing system that’s deliciously useful for character development. She suggested an interesting twist on Jake, the hero, that will keep him true to his original self while simultaneously giving him a much needed kick in the butt. Of course, I’m torn. Do I travel back to the land of Carolina, or do I go forward with my intended plan to work on SIX GUN QUOTA?

Decisions, decisions…

Given my current track record, however, I think the better bet might be to see what comes more naturally, at least until I manage to ease back into some semblance of a schedule.

Choosing a Book

It’s a familiar routine. I sit down in front of my TBR bookcase (yes, I finally ditched the pile and upgraded to shelves), and I run a finger along the spines. What to read, what to read? I’ve got a pretty wide selection, actually. Everything from general fiction to mystery/thriller to romantic comedy to historical to steampunk to the travels of Pytheas the Greek… You get the idea. Among this general selection are the books I’ve picked up along the way by beloved authors, both long-held and newly discovered, and I noticed, not for the first time, my unfortunate tendency to almost spurn those books in favor of others.

A strange habit, you may say. I could blame various quirks I’ve developed over the years. My habit as a child to eat the green beans first and get the icky part over with or color code the Skittles so I could eat the red and purple last. Go to bed early Christmas Eve to wake up all that quicker for Christmas morning. I have the tendency to save the best for last, but I think the more compelling reason I put off reading the books I know I’ll love is because of the other quirk I developed over the years. The same one that had my reading through the night, despite the looming math test and my father’s threats to take my books away. I get dragged too deeply in the story, drown in ignorant bliss,  sinking beneath the tide of time.

Okay, so maybe I’m putting too romantic of a spin on it, but I have books sitting on my shelves, beckoning, and I knowingly resist the pull out of a tangled sense of self-preservation. “I have work in the morning,” I silently tell those sirens. “I have to drive a car on the freeway in rush hour.” That’s not something you want to do on the one hour sleep you’d manage after realizing only once the alarm goes off that you’ve been up all night reading. No sirree, Bob. But it did have me thinking what it is about these books, exactly, that hooked me so hard and so fast? What about the plot or the characters or the voice keeps me ignorant of the outside world until dawn bleeds through the blinds?

Literary analysis isn’t my strong suit. Ironic, really, given the English degree currently hanging on my wall, but I’ve always known it to be a weakness of mine. I never much worried about it until I realized that it could probably help my own writing. All I know is, somewhere in those books that wink with mischievous little twinkles in their eyes, that a lesson’s in there somewhere.

I Don’t Believe in New Year’s Resolutions

But if I did, it’d be to keep up with this blog better. Good think I’m a disbeliever because it’s not off to an auspicious start. Of course, I can’t bring myself to grumble too much about the site since I haven’t written anything in near as long. I blame a combination of the holidays, a job change, travel, and just plain ol’ fashioned apathy. The itch to write comes and goes, but I’ve been ignoring it. Everything from the mundane (laundry, cleaning) to the wonderful (family, friends) pulls my attention. I know I need to make room for writing. That cliché of “use it or lose it” definitely applies, but it’s not as simple as that either. Because writing is neither a hobby nor a livelihood for me. It’s still a dream. One of the most fragile things in a person’s life.

 Not to visit it, not dwell in the realm of my personal fiction and paint the skies with words, is to subject it too harshly to reality. The world presses in, abrading against those fragile borders until they’re worn thin. Then, one day, just the right amount of pressure is applied and, with a quiet crackling, it shatters. Yes, perhaps that sounds overdramatic, but I still believe it to be true. The dreams that continue are those that are reinforced through years of nothing but a person’s willingness to dream them.

I can feel my fiction fading, just a little. The characters in my head have grown quieter, their emotions still palpable but as soft as worn denim against mine. I have to focus on them now, like feeling myself breathe, and I worry because sometimes it feels like it’d be so easy to just let them slip away. But I’m lucky in that I know, deep down wherever this knowledge is kept, that if I let that happen, I’d wake up one morning to discover that it’d be the one big regret in my life. Not many people have that opportunity, nor the ability to prevent it with relative easy because it’s just the writing. Just the simple act of sitting down, putting pen to paper, and watching another world spin out in shades of ink.

…And the Burner Wasn’t On

I swear, sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.

Maybe It’s Just a Wee Bit OCD

I can’t remember if I turned the stove off this morning after making breakfast. I’m pretty sure I did. I almost remember turning it off, but that vivid, clear, distinct memory of turning the knob and hearing that satisfying little snap that tells me the burner’s off isn’t there. I am now going to have to drive the 40 miles home just to double-check because I’m not completely sure, and my paranoid imagination is off and running with one horrible possibility after another.

Of course, I can argue the finer points of the book I finished last night, including details of the scenes that made me want to slap the heroine for being such a wuss, the nuances of the dialogue, and the one unnecessary plot point that made me want to throw the book across the room in frustration. I can also tell you the moments that made me want to keep reading in more detail than they probably warrant.

And, like all writers, I can go on for hours about any and all of my stories, written or unwritten, including characters’ back stories, emotional turning points, setting, underlying themes, symbols, inspirations, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

I just can’t remember whether or not I turned the damn burner off.