Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Real Life Writing/Writer

I got up early and drank a pot of Trader Joe's dark from my venti size mug, petted my senile nineteen year-old cat.
The stage was set to finally lay out the article in Writer's Digest, The Great Revision Pyramid, by Gabriela Pereira, and begin revising Touching Spirits, my action novel that has been waiting for completion.

I am anxious to begin, and excited to have this article guide me.  I was feeling overwhelmed with the project. Now it is a comfort to have a guide, although I have done it with two other novels, if I can find a new approach, one that may cut down the time involved and offer new insights into the process, then yes, I am all for it.

Alas, the course of my day changed in an instant. As my fiance was leaving the house her heel poked through the back porch. It is crumbling and is officially a hazard. I saw my writing time float out of reach like a cloud of cigarette smoke. I had to rebuild the porch before one of us got an unexpected sleigh ride to the ground, six feet below.

And because I am a living on a shoe string budget, supporting myself by working at Home Depot, guess who had to do the work. Ho hum. I could not avoid it. I had to enter the world of Steinbeck, the realm of labor, swinging a hammer instead of verbs and analogies.

But when things like this happen it is important to push back against the universe and the people you care about.  Writing is the most important aspect of my professional life. To prove that to myself and others I carved out two hours to write. 'Come hell or high water, I will write.'

Readers, you can't allow life to cancel your writing. You have to push back and maintain a routine, even if that time is drastically reduced. Paint on the butt glue and sit your butt in a chair and write EVERY day. Even when life throws you a curve. If you only get twenty minutes, you are still sending notice to yourself and those around you: I am a writer.

Then I set about tearing apart the porch and rebuilding it. And yes, the only thing holding it together was the termites were holding hands. The lumber compressed and crunched like toast, the inside eaten by the insects.