Month: April 2014
Okay, now that I have your attention.
Calm down, it’s nothing salacious in the least. If you were wishing for salacious, I apologize. At the same time, however, I don’t want to let you down, so here goes: Miley Cyrus, penis, boobs, porn. How was that?
Now, on to matters at hand.
As a writer, I tend to have several projects going at the same time. This is usually very frustrating. Inspiring, too, because it means I’m actually getting things written. Granted, these aren’t finished projects, but they are projects nonetheless. The only problem I have is deciding which ones take priority.
So, writers, how do you go about figuring out which projects deserve your utmost attention?
I have three short stories going at the moment. I’m happy to admit that I’m enjoying all three of them equally (usually I tend to favor one over the other, but this is not a set of children, these are stories we’re talking about here!). The problem is I’m not sure which I should favor more. Why? Frankly, I’d like to get something accomplished for heaven’s sake! I’m all about perfection, but I’m also all about submitting. If I work on all three here and there, we’re looking at weeks, maybe months before I get them done.
This doesn’t include the novel I’m working on, or the dozen other Beginners I have stashed in my writing file (Beginners are those stories, you know the ones: an opening line, maybe a paragraph, a fantabulicious idea you simply can’t forget about?!?).
So, again, I ask for your advice. How does it work for you? Do you start one project and trudge through until you’re done? Do you carve away at several stories at once without any anxiety over which needs more of your attention (and if you are this person, I hate you already…okay, not really, but still!). Do you not care in the slightest and just work on whatever you damn well please?
Thoughts, people, I need your thoughts!!!
I tweeted earlier asking writers if they felt it was okay to write out of revenge. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is yes, I’m on Twitter. But on to more important matters.
It occurred to me at work today that I wanted to write a story about my colleagues. Well, not colleagues, per se, but the people who treat me lesser than they think they are. That word alone – colleague – is a joke in the context of which I’m referring. I’m no more a colleague to them than Miley Cyrus is a pillar of moral fortitude. Sure, a job is only as professional as you make it, but I can only take being talked to like a five-year old so many times before I either snap or, more fittingly, write about it.
So what better way to stick it to ’em than by writing a story about them?
Of course there are concerns. What if, in a world where Miracles Happen, the story got published? First off, you can bet your sweet booty I would brag to whoever crossed my path that I had a story available to read (too presumptuous to think The New Yorker?). It would not be a secret. There’s a chance I’d have the news tattooed to my forehead. But many of the people I work with I actually like (it’s only a select few who make my skin boil like lava); I would, of course, want to share the news with them.
This means, of course, Those In Question would eventually hear about my published masterpiece. What’s a boy to do?
I can see it now – confrontations, accusations, fingers pointed. “So this is how you really think of me?” I can imagine the bitchy one saying, in that bitchy way she says things, basically just being a bitch. What really would it matter? She gives me the cold shoulder as it is? What harm could a few literary daggers do?
So it gets me thinking: what harm could a few literary daggers do??? I don’t actually want to hurt anyone…I think.
Of course names would be changed to protect the insolent. I mean impudent. Dammit! I mean innocent, really, I do. Settings would be changed up. Maybe I can give the story a jaunty time shift to 1986 and throw in references to Madonna and Prince? Dynasty? Chernobyl?
But what, then, would be the point of writing the story? Doesn’t inspiration come in endless forms? Shouldn’t I be content with the fact that something propelled me to actually get some work done? Should I ever – EVER – have to apologize for something I’ve written? Do you think Augusten Burroughs felt rotten after writing all those hilariously horrible things about his family in “Running With Scissors,” running his story up the bestseller lists and seeing his words made into a movie?? No, he didn’t!! Granted, this is probably a bad example since those people wound up suing him for defamation, but I digress.
I’m not entirely sure the reason I wrote this post. Maybe I’m looking for validation. Maybe I wanted to vent. Maybe I’m hopped up on sugar from eating too many Reese’s peanut butter eggs (50% off after Easter!). What I do know is that the story will be written because if I can’t just flip everyone off at work and storm out the door, why not do it figuratively in writing?
Sunday blows, and not in the good way. Sunday reminds us that the weekend is nearly over and the dreaded work week begins on Monday (cue The Bangles). This is not a good feeling. Sunday wriggles its nasty fingers around us and taunts us by saying: “Am I bugging you?? But I’m not touching you!!”
Sunday crushes that sense of possibility. You know the one. It’s that feeling you get on Friday when the workday is done and you have the entire weekend laid out in front of you. Go out with friends? Sure! Relax on the couch and watch Food Network? Okay! Spend hours upon hours working on that novel? Absolutely!
But no. Sunday afternoon rears its ugly head and spits a big fat loogie in your eye.
Here it is, Sunday, and there isn’t much I’ve accomplished. I did some laundry, and some dishes. I started a new short story. I’m on my second beer. I suppose that isn’t so bad. There are worse things in the world.
Truly, there was no point to this post other than venting. It’s just that I’m sitting here, at my computer, knowing there are other things I should be working on. Writing a crappy post about crappy Sundays is better than not writing anything at all. I think, deep down, that Sundays aren’t really all that bad, it’s just how I perceive them.
Basically, it’s my fault for being a lazy procrastinator.
Hey, look at that! I had my own little religious-like epiphany. Wow, between cleaning the litter box and taking out the trash, I’ve got me some good philosophical stuff going on in this noggin of mine.
Here I am, back after a lengthy hiatus. Why the break? Absolutely no reason other than my own irresponsibility. Sigh.
Regardless, here I am. And what, pray tell, might I have to talk about? Not much except one thing: Why can’t I just sit down and fucking write? Why?? I’m the king of distraction. I’m easily bored. I’m my worst critic, too, which makes writing all that more difficult because I get irritated too quickly with what I’ve written.
I’m sitting I a Starbucks right now wondering why I can’t just fill the pages of the notebook in front of me.
Are any of you the writer who can sit and write for hours?? I just can’t seem to do it. I want to be, but social media and life get in the way. And no, don’t suggest turning off the internet because I can just as swiftly turn it back on.
Ok, I’ll shut up now. I just had to vent.