So you might have noticed I’m not blogging lately. Know what else I’m not doing? Writing. Not editing, planning, plotting, researching (random research doesn’t count), or brainstorming either.
I hate it. I feel…dead. Worse. I feel undead. Zombie horde, I am in you!
Grrr! Argh!
*cough*
So anyway. When I’m not writing I’m here (for a given value of “here”), but I don’t know why. I’m not even really here. My soul is somewhere else. Or something like that–I don’t know. I can’t think straight. I’m confused and foolish and I don’t much care.
The first day or two was great! I did dishes and made dinner on the same night. I prettied up my room. I played in the newly-downloaded Scrivener beta. I got some ideas. I read a bit more of my book.
Then the drag started. The drain. The seepage. I didn’t notice at first. I thought lost sleep was catching up with me. Maybe I was coming down with something, that’s why I wanted to go to bed early (which I didn’t do) and had trouble dragging out of bed. Then my mood started sinking, and nothing could lift it for long. The muses went back into hiding. The sun went out, and the sparkles left the world.
I had planned to read some books. Watch some movies. Clean my house. I’ve done none of those things, and I don’t want to. I just wanna mope about. What’s worse is that I don’t even want to write. I have things I could work on that aren’t so much heavy-lifting as novel rewrites tend to be–short stories, fanfics, organizational stuff–but I’m not interested in that either. The most I can manage is–well, this. Complaining to anyone that will listen.
There has to be a better way. Writing-breaks make me miserable incredibly quickly, yet like anyone, I need to recharge once in a while. Maybe I need to learn to do it while writing–get my behind off the computer and read a book after reaching a writing goal or something. I don’t know. It’s never worked for me before; I tend to be an all or nothing kind of girl.
Two writers I follow do it that way, though: Elizabeth Bear and Chuck Wendig. Both of them write for a living, though, which means they can spend eight hours writing and still have time to do other things. How did they get to that point? I suspect they wrote all the damn time.
So I guess I should quit my whining and get back to work. Unless you have a better idea?
How do you balance real life and your dreams? Any pointers?
When I take writing breaks, I don’t stop writing – I write what the heck I want. It’s permission to follow the muse where the heck the muse wants to go, and nothing recharges the batteries better. No commitment, just pure *fun*.
My muses are ominously silent. Perhaps they need a swift kick in their lazy asses?
I can do that. 😈
I know I wrote — and write — all the time. Took me, I dunno, 7-8 years of heavy writing to get to the point where I could do it for a living. And even then, it’s still a tough row to hoe.
Rely not on your muse. Approach writing like carpentry or groutwork. Only way it gets done is to do it.
Now go out there and kick ass.
— c.
It’s the Wendig! You are right, Chuck, as you tend to be. (damn you!)
Kicking ass shall commence immediately.