Showing posts with label vague babble. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vague babble. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

"And she wrote the whole novel via e-mail"

She sits at the local coffee shop all day, sipping subtly on a cup of Earl Grey, hoping that the management doesn't see fit to kick her out as she scribbles her dreams onto the most handy surface: napkins.

My secret writing shame is that I am (in the most cliché way possible) completely enamored with the idea of writing on napkins. Probably because I've never actually done it. While I have written poetry on the back of receipts (to be later revised, of course, but sometimes those flashes of imagery don't stay with you long!), I could never actually bring myself to write on napkins. The preservation specialist in me gasps in horror at the mere thought. I am more:

  • Typing away at the keyboard at my desk, drinking coffee!coffee!coffee! and being endlessly distracted by the barn swallow that perches on my window and attempts non-harmonious communication.

Even when writing with real pen and ink, I like to have little notebooks with me at all times, even if I didn't (in times when receipt writing has to occur)...I wouldn't reach for a napkin. They tend to rip when you put a pen to them.

Nevertheless, I am intrigued by the romantic image conjured up by the idea of napkin writing. There's something of the classic Cinderella archetype in it, especially when you hear the "J.K. Rowling did it" anecdote, which. incidentally, she has refuted, despite the fact that I am sure magic napkins wouldn't rip when you put a pen to them.

I've never actually heard of any real writer who did this. I have however heard of a novel written via text messaging on a cell-phone. The modern day equivalent of napkin writing, perhaps?

Something to consider when my commute balloons to an hour and a half next week.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

It was a dark and stormy night...

Or at least it's going to start off stormy. A transplanted Ohioan such as myself expects stormy summers rife with buzzing electric air and clingy humidity right -- before the thunderclaps rattle their way through the landscape. Which incidentally, is usually around 5 p.m., daily, on weekdays. At least they were when I used to work until 5.

It kinda "thundered" a little last night. I prepped the tea (Green Chai *bliss*) and waited...for... nothing. Oh well.

The writing goes slowly. I despair of finding niches or markets for modern ya fantasy set in rural Ohio or "Gothic horror" (I'm a touch unsure of this label, but it will do for now) traipsing it's way through various turn of the century settings. But I suppose we must press on. The Burning River (I really need a new title for this nonsense. It doesn't even take place in Cleveland, though the city of rock is mentioned...twice.) is currently at about 17K word count. Not where I had hoped to be, now in June, but getting there. Much of the tedious expository work has been done and I'm ready to tear my teeth into the meat of it now. The epic -- well, at the very least quasi-epic -- battle meat of it all.

I'm about half-way through a re-read of Lovecraft Tales. I think I shall blame that rather off-putting last sentence on that. On second thought...that just doubles the creepy.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

The more they remain... insane

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Clearly this also applies to my fear of public forums as well (internet social anxiety? does that exist? I must get some of my army of psych-kids on figuring that one out.) . I am going to have to come up with a schedule to keep this endeavor going.

Perhaps we shall begin with a project introduction:

My major project at the (1st - there are 2, go me) library where I work right now is weeding through our VHS tape collection, which is weird to me. I can't explain it. I suppose it's the technological obsolescence (great phrase, I try to use it as much as possible) making me feel old. Or maybe it's the fact that via this project, I learned that Paul McCartney wrote a "Liverpool Oratorio"...which is -interesting- in and of itself.

But, honestly, I am completely incapable of working on only one project at a time. And, of course, writing happens. And writing can never happen one thing a time either. I write the novel, but every so often my mind will wonder just enough to allow the plot virus beast to do this vicious little dance and chase me around the room until I crank out a story to its liking. Then we have a problem. This is a horrible habit that I desperately need to break myself of. Granted, I try to make sure that every one of my writing projects exists in completely divergent worlds -- otherwise I'd find the characters running about trying to make friends with one another as they did in Gilded Days (I'll get to that, don't you worry your head over it). Still it keeps everything a little slow going. My word count tallies can get a little sporadic to say the least.

My goal for this summer's is to buckle down on one of my main three. Which of the three, at the moment, is still dangerously up in the air.