Stop staring at each other and do something already.
Some people have asked me, with a bit of concern, "Can you do this new blog with Marie and still write?" The short answer is yes. The longer answer is YESSSSSSS.
In fact, when I don’t have something to distract myself with, I can barely write at all. I need long blocks of time to write, but I also need stuff to occupy monkey brain. In the past I have used the internet at large, just randomly looking at stuff. That has, as mentioned, made me insane. Better is a project. Something I can go and do. Which is why when it was "read news blogs" I got mad when they didn’t update. "I’m taking a break. Why haven’t you provided new content?" Here we are now. Entertain us. Well, with the new blog I entertain myself. I get stuck, so I go find more crap for the blog. We have the damn thing scheduled into March. As in, multiple posts a day. And we add new ones during the day every day. It’s a little insane, actually.
A lot more fun than banging my head against <insert title of current manuscript here>. Because while it has its own process, its own nebulous way of being, its way hurts my brain. Right now, for example, I’m working on A Private Gentleman. Why aren’t I working on Better Than Love? Because it wants to think about things. Because every time I try to write it, it just says, "You have to go back to McAllen." Well, I’m going back to McAllen, damn it. In May. What happens when I tell it that? It just says, "La, la, la, la, la, McAllen." I could force it, but it would just go in circles again. So I’m writing A Private Gentleman.
A Private Gentleman has a great beginning, an impressive ending, and fog in the middle. I"m trying to write the middle. I know what’s supposed to happen, but the finer details are stumping me. And I can’t ask anybody for help. It doesn’t work that way. I could show somebody, and they’d say, "Oh, have them do blah," and I could even try to write blah. And Michael and Wes would nod and smile like I was very simple, and then they would go back to going on their first date-no-sex and not knowing what to do with each other. It’s almost like they’re thinking, and I have to wait until they’re ready. And then, when they are ready, I have to sit down and write. Right then and there.
In the meantime, I surf the net for pics, coffee, and porn.
I always have this idea that it would be nice to go with the flow. I approach the story in some sort of transcendental high, thinking this time I will just Let It Be, la, la, la. Every time I end up shouting at it to fucking do something already. Dance With Me (née Two to Tango) had me first in tears, and then just in plain old insanity. Ask Marie. God, ask Marie how I went into histrionics over the fucker. It isn’t out until June. This is good, because I think I have PTSD over it.
APG is better behaved. Mostly. Except for Rodger, who I don’t know where the fuck he’s from or where he gets his accent. And the fact that I have a stammering recluse trying to take MIchael out on a date and they don’t know where to go. I know where they could go, but I can’t find the arc. I can’t decide if they’re waiting for me to catch up or if they’re still thinking.
This is why I scream at them.
I have to say, when I get overwhelmed, yes, it’s nice to go surf tumblr instead. Sometimes they make story bunnies, characters that say, "Hey. I want to tell you about something." I just say, "Uh-huh. Go get in line. But nice ass."
So that’s what I’m doing. And that’s what writing is. Stops and starts, sometimes with glorious universal spiderwebs flying from my fingertips mixed in with bouts of me screaming obscenities. And then going off to ogle men objectively.
It’s a living.
Sort of. Eventually.
It passes the time between loads of laundry and trips to the grocery store?
Fuck, I"m just going to go try to write the next chapter.