A long time gone
Hello there, LiveJournal.
It has been a long, long time. Let's see, what have I been up to since last we met?
Certainly not blogging or writing with any frequency, more's the pity, although my main excuse has to be the pursuit of other creative endeavors. Namely, making a new human. Since she's now 17 months old and is no longer dependent on me for All The Things, perhaps it's time for me to stop faffing around with teaching myself textile crafts and globetrotting and learning how to cook and keep a house, and return to a more essential passion.
Time to start writing again. Publicly. Regularly. Unabashedly.
November approaches, heralding the bright promise of Celtic New Year, and the dark specter of Nanowrimo's 50,000 word challenge. Several times I have signed up for the insanity of trying to write a book in 30 days, hoping that the madness might drive away my urge to polish before I have so much as a working first draft underway. Never came close to succeeding once. My inner editor overpowers me before I begin, forcing me to re-read and revise roughly-sketched scenes to perfection, when I'm not even sure where they fit into the plot; mainly because I start without one.
I've been thinking a lot about the difference between Pantsers and Plotters, or as mistborn likes to call them, Gardeners vs Architects. I'm firmly in the Pantser camp - an idea or a scene pops into my head and I'm desperate to jot it down before it disappears - but then it just sits there, like a melody waiting for a concert to magically appear all around it. That's never going to happen, unless I'm willing to put in the work of sitting down and writing the rest of the tune. It's time to face the music, so to speak. To acknowledge that writing, like any other job, requires planning and persistence and aggravation, not just mystical moments of inspiration.
Parenting has forced me to Harden the Fuck Up, and I sincerely think it will have a positive effect on my writing as well. Perfection is no longer an option; there simply isn't time. Best efforts on all fronts are what you aim for if you really want to achieve, otherwise you're just pining for the impossible. Nothing makes you realize how precious time spent alone is like having a baby. For a long time, there is NO time for anything but constant vigilance over the babe. Sleeping is a desperately sought treat. Showers, a rare luxury. Meals are no longer pleasant, relaxing interludes, but rushed and stressful attempts to ingest organic proteins and vegetables with minimum sugar and added crap, to make sure the child gets the best nutrition via your body. Hobbies are packed away, because you can't bear to think of the time that is no longer available to enjoy yourself. But slowly, time opens up again, and with that precious gift comes a desire to reassess what you do with it. How you use it. What results you hope for from it.
To move towards the goal of finishing at least one of my many Scrivener projects before I die, I'm rebooting this blog. I have many bits and pieces of novels in my mind, all scattered seeds of thought and dialogue waiting for someone to corral them into sequence, action, conflict and resolution. That someone is me. I need discipline. I need a quiet corner to plot and think. I'm hoping this dusty old space where I once wrote so fluidly and joyfully can provide some of those needs. It's not precisely my first blog - that was DiaryLand, back in March of aught-three - but it is the first place I got really comfortable writing to and for people at large, awaiting feedback, secure within multiple layers of community and privacy.
I'm not sure what form this will take; I've almost never posted fiction, just personal accounts. It's been years since I chronicled the daily bread of my life, and though I no longer have dating shenanigans or voyages abroad to discuss, I am: raising a child, living with a man, returning to work, about to enter my 40s. If I want to speak to people through fiction, I need to find my voice again, whatever new timbre it has taken on with age and experience. This sounding board, this echo chamber, this empty canyon is where I'll yell, until I find my rhythm again.