There is a simple, brutal truth for authors out there: Everything gets in the way of writing. Eating, sleeping, exercising, spending time with family and friends, other jobs, cleaning, there is nothing that doesn't take time away from writing. Even editing takes time away from writing! In the face of this hard truth writers have to decide if the things that they are letting keep them from writing are actually more important than writing or if they are excuses we are using not to write. If your writing isn't progressing as you want it to, maybe you should examine your priorities and determine if they are truly in the order that you want them to be. I'm not saying that friends, family, sleep, and jobs aren't important, I'm just pointing out that there may be a difference between priorities and excuses. Right now my own excuse for not writing is that finishing editing my book is more important. But is it really? Are there really that many "one hit wonder" authors out there? And how do those compare to the super prolific writers? I sometimes need to take my own advice. Keep Writing and Edit On I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness! |
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I'm not exactly dancing on the walls ecstatic, but I am pleased to announce that my short story Alchemical Reminiscence of Death received an honorable mention in the second quarter 2015 judging of the Writers of the Future Contest [received an e-mail yesterday, but not officially official on their website yet]. It is a fantasy tale in which the protagonist's best friend delves too deeply into the wells of alchemy and she must take him to an ancient shrine of power if she hopes to save his soul. I hope to soon be able to announce that someone has published my story based on this prestigious almost award. Keep Writing and Edit On
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness! I was fortunate enough to have met Zig Zag at Penguicon this year. Rarely do you come across an individual who is so passionate and authentic both as a writer and as a person. His personality fills a room, but in the best way possible, and his eclectic writing will fill up your brain. Meet Zig Zag Claybourne in 3 questions. 1) What do you wish that people would ask you about your writing? “Would you stop writing and come run with me, run madly across a beach as the sun dissolves into the sea?” Seriously, I’ve never cared for the ‘Where do you get your ideas’ types of questions. I get them the same place as you with your marvelous brain! I just happen to put them on paper a bit more often. If somebody asked me if I’d stop writing—either temporarily or forever—to experience life with them I would love that question and immediately dig out my swim trunks o’bliss. 2) Which of your characters would you most like to meet and why? Raffic the Mad Buddha. Raffic’s an enigma wrapped inside a face punch in my latest book (plug!). He’s this short loner the heroes know who appears in the nick of time when he wants to appear, does what he wants to do, and somehow always manages to be the most dangerous person in the room even when he’s not in the room. He’s the closest of all my characters to my secret heart of hearts. It would be cool to see how long he could tolerate me. 3) Are the psychic whales in your latest novel, The Brothers Jetstream, a direct result of your advice to write something ridiculous into your story (and take it out later) to get you past writer's block? The Brother’s Jetstream is a special animal. Its psychic whale was always meant to be a crucial part of it. As the book took shape the question of how to integrate a massive psychic whale-thing into a sci fi adventure about the forever war between art and commerce became so ridiculous I decided to use The Psychic Whale Maneuver in subsequent works whenever I came up against a blockade: don’t just write through the blockage, write the most insane bit of glorious lunacy you can come up with but make it flow with the book as though always meant to be. It’s like a runner stumbling and then jumping up with thumbs up and a big grin on her face, then running on. Writing’s about boldly going. The Psychic Whale forces you to do that. Boldly. Just like there’s no crying in baseball, there’s no writer’s block in writing. Zig Zag Claybourne is on a quest for world literary domination or supple book groupies,with a decided preference one over the other. He is the author of two novels-- Neon Lights (an urban comedy) and By All Our Violent Guides (literary novella) and a wild short story collection entitled Historical Inaccuracies. Just released: the only Brothers Saving The World Featuring Psychic Whales sci fi adventure you’ll ever need: The Brothers Jetstream. Keep Writing and Edit On
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again! Witness! I smile at the gate attendant and hand over the wad of crumpled bills. She beams back at me. "Do you need a map of the park?" I nod. "Yes please." She hands over my receipt and the glossy pamphlet map along with a bright orange piece of paper with an image of a bear on it. "Enjoy your visit." "Thank you." As I pull away from the gate my eyes are drawn down from the towering pine trees and winding road to the illuminated gas light on the dashboard. The lingering smile on my face fades, but I refocus on the narrow road ahead of me. Slanted sunlight dapples through the trees and sparkles off the creeks that follow the road. It is such breathtaking beauty that I nearly cause an accident or three. Shaking my head, I scan a sign which confirms that I'm going in the right direction. Though I asked for a map, I have my own and I know it like the back of my hand. My only worry is that I'll run out of gas before I get there, but it doesn't matter that much. Other cars and RV's crowd the road around me, especially in places where the steam of geothermal activity drifts up from the ground. I grit my teeth as I make my way past them. Eventually the traffic thins and valley meadows with rivers fall away to cliffs and canyons. Though the pine trees are ever-present, some are only dead, blackened spires left from wildfires. The car begins to sputter, and I search for a place to pull off. Budding from the road just past the next turn I spy a turnoff and pull into it. I turn off the car and retrieve my backpack and walking stick from the passengers seat. Scanning around, I see no signs or other cars, but still I don't linger. I shoulder my backpack, turn from the car and walk straight away from it without looking back. The ground is soft and marshy except where fallen pines crisscross it, and soon my faded tennis shoes are soaked through with dirty-smelling water. But the sights, smells, sounds, and feel of the place overwhelm me, and soon the road has disappeared behind the trees. Pine, dust, and the scent of marshy water become more poignant as the warmth of the day fades into the chill of the night. Sometimes the going is slow because the trees are so close together that I cannot squeeze between them and have to choose a different route. Once or twice I startle a squirrel or chipmunk, but I don't stop to see which. As long as it isn't a bear, I'm alright. My stomach rumbles with hunger but I don't stop walking because night is falling. The mosquitoes are relentless. They follow me in a cloud and buzz in my ears and land on my hands when they can find no other area of exposed skin. In my mind the rises and falls in the landscape and the swift but cold, shallow river I cross pass on the map in head with a red X coming closer and closer. Exhausted, feet cold and sore, I break through into a clearing and know that I have arrived. I am as far from a point of civilization here as I can be without climbing a mountain. Inhaling deeply, I ponder the wilderness. It is a strange place. So remote and feral, yet we call it ours. How can this land, that could swallow me up, be owned by the public? As I stand deep within the park's belly listening to the wailing of coyotes, I know that this land is wild and I am Alone. Papers and signposts mean nothing on this hillside. I take off my backpack and sit in the tall, scratchy grass watching the darkening sky. I will sit here until blue turns to purple and purple turns to black, and then the blackness is filled with stars. Here, I will come face to face with the place called Yellowstone. Keep Writing and Edit On
Hello, again. I have returned refreshed and rejuvenated from distant lands beyond the Mississippi. Today I want to wax poetic for a moment the virtues of travel with respect to the writer. In this day and age it is easy to hop on the internet and see pictures of faraway places to help you form a setting for a story not in your own backyard. However, even if you write fiction, there is no substitute for actually BEING in a place. To submerge all of your senses in a place: see it, smell it, taste it, feel it, touch it, hear it, is to truly experience it. Even if I am never to write a tale that takes place at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, I now have recorded in my memory a unique place that may help me someday to write about the heat and odd oppression at the bottom of a canyon on a newly terraformed mars. My point being, the more experiences you have as a writer the more sights, sounds, smells, etc. you have to draw from when writing. Additionally, traveling and experiencing new things is a wonderful source of creative inspiration. I admit that I probably have more wanderlust than most, and I further admit that you can certainly write excellent stories about a place you've never been (i.e. Jim Butcher Re: Chicago). On the other hand, aren't all great stories about a journey? ;) Keep Writing and Edit On |
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Cold Comfort - Monsters in Spaaaace! AuthorMy name is Jen Haeger and I have a degree in Veterinary Medicine as well as a Master's in Forensic Science, so I decided to forget all that and write novels. I used to read quite a bit as a youth, but was not introduced to truly spectacular writing until my husband showed me the works of Jim Butcher, Neil Gaiman, Philip Pullman, and others. We are both enormous dorks and enjoy Science Fiction, Fantasy, Board Games, and RPGs, but also try to get out backpacking every once in a while (much easier to do when we lived in New Zealand). Cheers! Archives
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