motivation

about writing

Yes, I know this is a boring title, but it’s hard to come up with something witty and pithy for a serious subject. I’d like to point you to Glenda Larke’s post on what defines a successful writer, which came on the heels of a long dry season in my writing life. This drought lasted all summer, maybe even stretched back to the beginning of the year. I’ve had some uplifting writing moments so far this year–I wrote a short story I really liked, submitted to places that gave me reassuring rejections, even saw two stories published. But those were small oases that I had to leave, and the water they supplied me with did not last long enough (yeah, I’m really stretching that desert analogy here!).

What it all came down to was this: my twin desires to write and to be published were at war with one another. The drive to achieve one was strangling my love for the other. I pored over magazine and agent’s guidelines, and forced myself to work on projects that were the most marketable or near-enough complete so I could get them out faster (hint to self: don’t do that again. It doesn’t work. Any love you have for that project will fizzle out under such pressure).

At about the same time I persuaded D. that we should get a piano–for the kids! It took me a while to get someone out to tune it, but once it was in playable condition no one in my family could keep their mitts off of it. We even had minor arguments about who could play it when. I got a piano book (because that’s the kind of linear, orderly, rule-oriented person I am) and started working my way through it. Hit a brick wall and decided to find a piano teacher. Sir I. went along to that first lesson and was game to learn the piano, so now we’re both playing. And enjoying it.

When I play the piano, I play it for me. For my pleasure, not the pleasure of my family, my piano teacher, or my neighbors. I have no need to perform for others. It’s enough for me that I can train my fingers to move over the keys–confident, assured–and create music. Wow.

Totally different from how I’ve felt about writing.

It’s taken me time away, freewriting, mindmapping, angsting and conversation with a good writing buddy, to come back to the point where I can say, yet again, that writing is important to me. That creating compelling characters, twisty plots, gorgeous prose and bizarre worlds is what I enjoy doing. That I still love writing stories even if I’m not getting published often enough and fast to suit me. The desire for publication is still there, but it’s been put in its place as subordinate to the desire to just write for its own sake–for my own sake.

I ditched the marketable projects–abandoned a short story and a quarter-done novel revision–to work on the story that was really tugging at my heartstrings. I’m building up my writing muscles, aiming for 500 words a night, five times a week. And no beating myself up if I skip a night.

Writing is fun. And that’s how I want to keep it.

piano and writing

I haven’t talked recently about playing the piano, but let me reassure you that it is still happening. Sir I. and I started taking lessons over a month ago, and we both enjoy them, including the time we share together driving to and from lessons. Our teacher lives way out in the country–about half the route is on dirt roads–and we like to point out to each other the place we once saw foxes(!) crossing the street and the Hallway of Trees and the farm with the flagpole and pond. It’s good mother-son bonding time.

Oh, and I like playing the piano, too. Still. *wink*

Playing piano complements writing really well for me. I can’t write while the kids are around; I can’t play piano while they’re sleeping. Writing is hard mental work; playing is–well, I just sit down and make my fingers stumble over the keys in the hopes that I can build up the skill and strength and muscle memory it takes to play decently. And honestly, these days I feel more of a sense of accomplishment playing through a short piece of music than working on my writing. Maybe it’s because I’m a complete beginner at piano, so any progress feels like a huge leap to me. My learning curve for writing, on the other hand, is currently a plateau. I’ve reached a certain level of competence and I’m stuck there. I can *see* where published work is better than what I’m writing, but not sure how to go about getting my stories across that invisible line.

And so, it’s just easier to go play the same measures of Sea Mist for the umpteenth time.

But, lest you think this is an entirely gloomy post, I have every confidence that once the weather cools down and we get into fall, my story-writing neurons will get all fired up to write. It’s weird, but cold weather makes a writer out of me. It’s as if I have a silicon brain, like the Discworld trolls.

How are your creative endeavors?

midmonth thoughts

So far this month, I have:

Got a total of 9K words on the new book
Revised and submitted a short
And am in the process of revising another short

My plan was revise and submit three shorts this month. One was to be the latest Elinor story, but I think I need to write a prequel first. The story I have just doesn’t have the high stakes and desperation that it should. I know, I can’t give Elinor a break. Things have to keep getting worse for her.

I went back into the vault and dug up a short I wrote a few years ago (titled Glider World: A Story; intriguing I know). I’ve always liked this story, but something about the way I resolved the plot bothered me. I thought up a fix, but that would mean gutting the story, changing the locale and throwing out most of the 7K words I’ve written on it. Worth it? I don’t know. I see short stories as one-shot things; either they work or they don’t, moving right along now.

My next contender I can’t find a good market for.

It’s not been the best writing month for me. My constant companion has been this niggling little voice whispering and whispering, “Why bother? There are so many better writers out there. Just sit back and enjoy their books. Why bother? There are so many books in the world already, more than anyone could possibly read. Why bother?” I’m ignoring it, but I’d be lying if I said that it hasn’t negatively affected my motivation.

This is not a very cheerful post, is it? How are you doing?

i’m doing it for love. really.

I know that writing fiction does not generate much income. I know that most novelists do not support themselves on their royalties and advances. Then I read articles like this one and I really know it.

It’s not the lack of money more than it is the lack of readership that bothers me. My husband says that it’s a pride thing instead of an avarice thing for me. Darn right. If I’m spending all this time crafting and polishing my stories, I’d like to have lots of readers, please. Preferably tens of thousands of them.

That said, I got a thousand words on the last story of this month. So, despite my pessimism, I’m still planning on inflicting my work on the unsuspecting populace. Oh, and ALSO, I got my contributor copy of Neverlands and Otherwheres which includes my story Second Sight (written as R. A. Gale). I got a real kick out of watching my husband read my story in its published form. Hee.