You’re singing it in your head now too, aren’t you?
Wednesday, what a quagmire of influence. Not quite past the peak to enjoy the slide to the weekend, or the mad rush to finish before the tolling bell friday; and not far enough in to feel the accomplishment of unloading the burden of a new week. Recent days have been rife with stress and unfathomable grief. So much so that the joys unnumbered have not been given their fair accounting and no amount of Thursdays spent in gratitude will compensate the lack of acknowledgement.
In English please you say? Today is my eldest daughter’s “weekaversary” with her first official boyfriend. I cannot determine the nature of the relationship and if she is asking for trouble or has found it. Being the protector and the disciplinarian while not creating an opportunity for the walls to be built is a fine line to walk. I daresay that I have greyed exponentially in the last ten days.
Greying of course being relative as my youngest pointed out a grey in otherwise blonde brows just a scant week or two ago. I wish I could recover that moment in time and laugh with her all over. I think it might be the last laughter of hers I have heard. I have learned in the interim that her world has folded in on itself and she is struggling in ways I never saw nor could I fathom. Struggling to the point that ‘ending it all’ was a very real thought for her. How does the world become so difficult for a thirteen year old that out is the best option?
In turn, my writing has taken a dramatic shift as Niagara Falls could not fill the basin faster than the words have come spilling out. Gearing up for NaNoWriMo I have to pause and wonder if I will complete that journey when I cannot think to ‘Rip-tide’ with this work taking me on the journey instead of me taking the words. Can both works come out before the November 30th deadline? I don’t know, and a part of me doesn’t care. My mission, my crusade, my singular focus is finding the joy that has been lost to my daughter and returning it to her. The sun shines when she laughs and I’m sore tired of rain.
Am I the only one out there who went to bed, and then had to get back up and sit at the desk to write because the words just would not stop? It was an odd phenomena. Completely new. Ultimately trivial…and thus my cuppa Joe has been refilled more often today than any other in recent history.
Sure, I’ve had nights where the notepad by the pillow got a few scratches with ideas that were bouncing about. I have never however, had a scene set on repeat in my head running end to end over and over again until I scratched the whole of it out on paper. The mind on a roll is a curious thing. I also sat debating how exactly I tell my mother that I’m never going to use the degree I so purposefully pursued and accumulated a land mass of debt to have, because when I find the right path to a writing career, I’m on it and never looking back.
Sitting in the lone lamp I then remembered the electric bill was due, so I logged on to pay that. Paying that brought the insurance renewal to the top of the stack and so I started reading that. Good lords;a distraction for a simple three page scene took me on a cross-country journey.
At the end of it all, I’m sitting here today wondering why I’m so tired, when getting the words to paper was all I needed to do. I guess maybe I should have stopped there. But then again, I’m not sure that I could have stopped the freight train without derailing the whole of everything. Anyone else do the re-route and ramble?
For the second day in a row I’ve asked myself this question out loud. Quite a telling situation to be sure. The answers are not quick to come either. I roll into the office and set up for the day, dive into whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing and somewhere in the accomplishment phase of said task, I find myself wondering why I’m here? Not the visceral, what is my purpose question, more the specific; I hate my job, I end up frustrated and feeling something just shy of broken every day, so why do I keep plugging away at the 9 – 5? Short answer? I can’t afford not to work. Long answer, I can’t afford not to work.
Writing has been a release and a form of guided meditation, but until that transitions into something more, I think I’m stuck. So, how to make the transition? How do I engage the curve and make that turn? Is it up to me? I think the answer is yes, and no. I think that the ‘leg work’ is mine to do, but there is an element of uncontrolability too, and that makes it both exciting, and frightening. In the end I can put the words on the page, but I also have to listen to the readers some to gauge how to write what they want to read. As a virtual unknown that is a really small group of dedicated amazing people. Are they a true cross-section of my potential audience?
How does this impact stories? I think a little or a lot depending. A well-known writer that I’ve followed for a while took quite a bit of heat not too long ago because after listening to fan outcry at the possibility of a character being killed off, they changed the story from where it was originally going and that threw the opposite end of the fan spectrum into arms. The balance between where you the author are going and where the fans hope you go is sometimes daunting. I consider myself beyond fortunate to have such a strong and true fan base already. I am also fortunate that many/most of them are completely comfortable telling me that I’m doing it wrong. ~laughing~ Yes, I do that too.
In the end, I guess this is not so much about ‘Why am I here?’ but more about how much longer do I have to stay? I hope the time grows shorter. I think I’m ready to get out.
Come visit the page, like if you want, and see what others are commenting. Another day another view…
My good friend, authoress Patricia M. Terrell recently had a blog spot talking about the notion of quality vs quantity in publication and how many books released in a year would be enough, versus how many are too much and would pre-empt a reader from picking them up. Do we find this argument valid? That an author who is releasing a number of titles in a set calendar year has short-changed the readership on the quality in the interest of quantity? What do you think?
Have you ever stopped to ponder the sunset when your view is to the east? What about the sunrise if your only vantage point is westward? There are odes, sonnets, and many a verse committed to the beauty of sunrises and sunsets, and yet as I look out my eastern facing window as the sun is descending I cannot help but wonder at the view, were I able to look the other way. Would it be glorious, would it be eventful, or would it be an unnoticed moment of time because the remarkability of it fell short of so many others?
Perspective is everything, and it is nothing. For the writer, perspective will dictate plot, character, and points of view. Vantage point will determine the protagonist and the antagonist, as well as drive the fans to love or loathe the story…so again I wonder at the view were I able to rotate my head one hundred eighty degrees.
Recently as many of you may know, I torched the manuscript of a story that was very dear to my soul as a writer. I knew the story well, and could see it play out in random momentary lapses of focus or awareness knowing exactly what I was seeing without having to wonder an iota. I burnt it to cinder because as I had forcibly been converting it to a different point of view I was in fact no longer telling the story I knew. It was not working because it was wrong.
Perhaps that is the case for many of us and instead of challenging ourselves to turn around and see the puzzle from a new point of view, we set it aside and it becomes a paver on the path of forgotten dreams. The story did not die, we killed it off in a fiery blaze or a quiet smothering as we did not adapt to find the voice from which it should be told. As I ponder the sunset I cannot see, I am reminded of the stories paving my path that have yet to have proper voice and am Thankful (yes it’s Thursday), for the inspiration and knowledge of what is possible to resurrect the muse for that tale so that the Bard in my soul can have a voice.