Twitchy

Ah, I'm having one of those days.

Can't sit still.  Not really clear on what I want to do.  Leg bouncing.  Mind racing.  Twitchy.

Not my favorite.

I have two stories I can work on.  Neither sounds particularly appealing.  (I love them both.)  Or I could start on a third because why not?  Because I'm twitchy.

Not quite sure what triggered this little episode, but I'd like to take it back.  It's too early in the day to be so scattered.

I think if I were to open one of my documents, I would probably settle in and get comfortable.  But if I can't?  

I'll be worse off than I am right now.

If it weren't so damn cold, I'd hop in my car and go driving around to shops.But it is so damn cold.

No Netflix or Amazon Prime.  I'll feel like I wasted my day.

Okay.  I'm doing it.  Working on the stories.  Maybe I can channel the twitchiness.

Always writing*

...even when twitchy as hell

The Sanctuary

This is the name of my office.  It's soft, welcoming, and incredibly zen.  I've endeavored to make it so.  But it's also the first place things are tossed when I'm in a bit of a hurry.  I still have Christmas presents on the day bed in here, and since this last Saturday was my birthday, I now have birthday presents lurking about.

It's time to clean.

Now.  I'm not touching the hell closet yet.  That's the lovely closet in here which is literally the catch-all for what I don't use in the Sanctuary, or at least don't use right now.  I need to organize it because I've taken to simply stacking things on top of other things.

Bad Crystal.

I write better with clean spaces.  I don't mean spotless because that's a ridiculous ideal for me.  I simply mean put up and organized some.  My desktop is cluttered a bit which is absolutely not a writing ideal.  I need a mostly clear space so I can make notes.

I have an old desk chair I've piled Christmas presents on.  That needs to go out in the trash.  I'm having a hard time letting it go.  Silly, yes?  

Going to have to rearrange the nooks and crannies on my desk since I have more things to put on top of it.  I have eleventy trillion writing utensils in four containers, but now I have a distressed wood box which houses my 4x6 pastel index cards I want on top of my desk.  No room at the inn.  Have to fix that.  Right now I feel...crowded.  Not conducive for my best writing.

I've errands to run tomorrow and will probably tackle this mess at some point so I can catch my breath and refocus on the writing.  Because, like the hokey-pokey, that's what it's all about.

Always writing*

...even with this messy desk

Doing it all

When I begin a story, I know whether it will be independently published or queried for traditional publication.

Not going to lie.  Being in the querying trenches blows.  It's messy, ugly, and your ego doesn't stand a chance.  When writers ask what we should tell new writers what they need, I ALWAYS say...a thick skin.  And I'm not being cute.  Develop a thick skin.  So thick you creak when you walk.  Writing isn't easy.  It's hard, and it's fucking merciless.  As much as you will have supporters who love you and your work, you will have those who will gleefully tear you down because they can.  Writing is subjective.  Reading is subjective.  You're not everyone's cup of tea, darling.  

I digress.

Publishing your story isn't easy.  This is what divides the artists from the wannabes.  When you decide to independently publish, you are in charge of writing, editing, book cover, formatting, reviews, publishing, publicizing, et al.  It is work.  I took a day to format a couple of books I wanted to release in paperback.  I wanted to gouge my own eyes out.  It took me 7-8 hours, and I didn't want to see a computer screen again that day.  

Editing?  Editing is looking at your own words 5 trillion times and being so sick of them you swear you're going to hurl your lunch, your keyboard, and the nearest item across the room if you have to look at them with your own eyes ONE MORE TIME.

Book cover?  People?  Real people?  Animal?  Font?  Colors?  Facing the font?  Face away?  Sexual?  Demure?  Like every other cover?  Out on a limb?  HELP ME!!!

Publicizing?  Goodreads?  Amazon?  Facebook?  BookBub?  How much should I pay for an ad?  Do the ads work?  Am I throwing my money away?  Should I do a giveaway?  What if I throw a party and no one comes?  BUY MY BOOK, PLEASE!!!

In summation:  writers are crazy, publishing is hard, buy our book.

Always writing*

...and losing what's left of my mind   

How many books have you written?

I suppose this is the same as asking a teacher how many years they've taught.  And which grade.  Or asking a farmer what they grow in their fields.  Asking a lawyer their specialty.

But really?  It's not.  

I've published sixteen books and more than half a dozen short stories.  Before I published anything, I'd written the book of my heart (what authors call the first book they write), first book of a detective series, and a lesbian romance.  They burned up in a fire that also took everything we owned in 2006.  I still have the bones of the lesbian romance in my head.  I may rewrite.  Groovy.

I've written three books since I've retired and nearly finished a fourth.  Three books in eight months is nothing to sneeze at, but two aren't published yet.  One is LGBTQIA+ I'm querying.  The other is Fantasy-Magical Realism I'm querying.  The third was "Fascination", which I've already published and made available.

Actually, not even counting the poor kindling books, I'm at almost nineteen.  I dropped off the second Fantasy-Magical Realism book around 60,000 words to work on a piece that has a great premise and a few twists that made me evil grin.  The one that came to me whole in the length of three hours I was in bed one day.  It's going quite well.

Then you may have someone who wants to differentiate between traditional published and independently published.  Mine are published.  They're about half and half at this point, and I truly don't care to divide them for anyone's curiosity.

But let's get to the bare bones of it.  If I'm bloated to hell, looking like a can of busted biscuits, and you ask me when I'm due, I hope you have medical insurance.  

If you ask a writer how many books they've written, HAVE RESPECT.  

We don't sit at a sunlit desk all day while the butterflies circle, the tea is hot, and the ideas literally flow from our brains to our fingertips while the birds sing.

Sometimes I want to say we're like addicts looking for our next fix.  Hands roaming over a keyboard waiting for our fingers to slip into that familiar rhythm which means the story has hooked us, thank God.

When you meet a writer, be kind.  Please keep in mind that out of our head is a really weird place for us to be.  And if you ask how many books we've written, no matter the number, be enthusiastic whether it's one or twenty-one.  If you can't do that, then please don't ask.

Always writing*

What if?

"What if" can be a real bitch.  Because we rarely "what if" positive things.  

"What if":

No one likes my story

I can't find a publisher

I don't like my own story now

I wasted all my time

I edited too much

I didn't edit enough

Back it up, buttercup.  So what?  What if these things happened?  What's the absolute worst outcome to all of the above?  You're not traditionally published?  You set aside the story until you have a fresh perspective?  What's the REAL "what if" here?

Failure.

"What if" is the mental gateway to failure.  And none of us like to fail.  You can "what if" the everloving shit out of the story, yourself, and the world in general.  It's a slippery slope.  

Now.  Let's "what if" the other side of life.

"What if":

You love your story

An agent asks to see the full manuscript

You polish the story until it shines in the darkest room

What if they still reject the story?  WHAT IF???

Oh, darling.  You dust your ass off, and you continue your journey.  There is no one way to do something.  There are branches upon branches of decisions to be made concerning one small thing.  Why settle for making decisions that don't fork?  You are limiting yourself.  Sometimes the best journeys are off the beaten path.  Sometimes you need to beat back the brush, muddy those pristine shoes, and force your way with a machete and an indomitable will.  If you don't have a machete, break the branches.  If you can't break the branches, bend them.  If you can't bend them, then work around them.  

There is ALWAYS a way.

My mother is an outdoor woman.  She picked me up one year for my birthday, and we went down to Sulphur, here in Oklahoma.  Trails, wooded areas, and plenty of nature.  My mother is an outdoor woman but not an ADVENTURE woman.  But we park and wander around.  Mom sees a trail and asks if I want to try it.  I'm game, because of course I am.  We start up.

To say this is a "trail" is to put it nicely.  It's a few bare spots in the dirt running vertical.  Up we go.  We push branches aside.  Lose sight of it a few times.  Think we found it again.  Duck.  Push.  Walk.  Laugh.  More of the previous.  Then we stop.

We are literally on the side of a mountain.  To our left is the most spectacular view.  Neither of us had any idea where we were.  Didn't matter.  We admired the scenery then made our way back down.  It's one of the fondest memories of my mom.  Because she's a "what if" person, and we didn't "what if" it to death.  We just went and did the hell out of it.

This is important, loves.  You are made to do what you do.  No one else.  Don't let "what if" sabotage you because she's a heinous bitch who doesn't give a damn about you.  She's all about winning.  Don't let her.  

Be strong.  Shine brightly.  Climb that fucking mountain.  

I believe in you.

Always writing*

It really happened

Stories come to me in fits and starts.  I cannot write a story without a title.  A title, in fact, often tells me the entire story.  Dialogue comes to me at all times of the day.  I jot it down in OneNote or on my Notes in my iPhone.  Scenes come to me as I'm trying to fall asleep at night.  Those go in Notes.

But never, have I EVER, had a complete story come to me while I'm laying in bed somewhere between conscious and unconscious over the course of about three hours.

Title, characters, premise, plot, scenes, dialogue, twists, and even a fucking theme song.  

😌 

What the what?

I've opened OneNote with its own notebook.  I've thirteen tabs open.  I've dialogue, pictures, and scenes written in.  Characters have their own tabs.  I love this weird little book.  Because, let me let the cat out of its little bag...this is an odd book.  It's Contemporary, mostly.  I mean, it is.  But it also has Fantasy elements so there's that.  But little ones.  I mean, nothing big.  Plus, there's some other stuff.  Should I count that in, too?

I'll worry about giving this some proper whatever the crap genre later.

Is there anything better than being lost in your head in a book your writing with the theme song playing in the background, and your fingers tapping on the keyboard?

Not much, my dears.

Not.  Damn.  Much.

Always writing*

...apparently some new story where I can see all the walls at once