Lost: My focus. Description: Dark, brooding, responds to "Cleo." Will pay cash for its safe return.
Have you ever had SO much to say about SO many things that it all canceled itself out and you couldn't say anything? What do you do when that happens?
I've been so distracted lately, mentally scattered in so many directions, that I haven't been able to pull any one thing together into a coherent notion. I mean, yes, this is my Writingscape and I can bloody well say what I want to on it, but rambling on or presenting y'all with painfully meandering discussion or having no focus up in here isn't how I roll. The good thing is--I haven't lost touch with my fiction. My editing of Dark Paranormal Romance WIP is going swimmingly (I may be enjoying it a little too much). I'm anxious to finish up so I can get back to shopping Fantasy Novel #1 to agents, follow up with Big Publisher (I'm thrilled it's out of the slush pile, it's been a year now, is it still under consideration?), and get cracking again on Fantasy Novel Sequel (which so far consists of eight chapters and a prologue). With things going so well fiction-wise, I'm not sure why I'm so scattered life- and blog-wise, even with Mama's transplant. Ah, well.
I have also been enjoying Sometimes The Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life by Terry Brooks. Critiquemate Teresa presented it to me after last month's meeting, and after reading the first chapter, "I Am Not All Here," I can see why she did. It was as if Brooks was digging around in my mind instead of his own, telling my truth, and she knew that would be my reaction. Two of my favorite passages go thusly:
Writing is life; you've heard that one, haven't you? Writers need their writing; they need their imaginery worlds in order to find peace in, or make sense of, the real world.
So when my family and friends discover I am not listening to them or they catch me staring off into space, I can't do a thing about it, because that's just the way I am. It is the way all writers are, I suspect. The muse whispers to you when she chooses, and you can't tell her to come back later because you quickly learn in this business that she might not come back at all.
The book is turning out to be as interesting a writing guide as it is Brook's self-portrait.
Anyhooo, thanks for listening, peeps, and keep fighting the good fight. Everything will be a-okay. If a family pet can find its beloved owners again over thousands of miles, all by itself, I dare say my focus will return as well.
Come on home, Cleopatra.
I've been so distracted lately, mentally scattered in so many directions, that I haven't been able to pull any one thing together into a coherent notion. I mean, yes, this is my Writingscape and I can bloody well say what I want to on it, but rambling on or presenting y'all with painfully meandering discussion or having no focus up in here isn't how I roll. The good thing is--I haven't lost touch with my fiction. My editing of Dark Paranormal Romance WIP is going swimmingly (I may be enjoying it a little too much). I'm anxious to finish up so I can get back to shopping Fantasy Novel #1 to agents, follow up with Big Publisher (I'm thrilled it's out of the slush pile, it's been a year now, is it still under consideration?), and get cracking again on Fantasy Novel Sequel (which so far consists of eight chapters and a prologue). With things going so well fiction-wise, I'm not sure why I'm so scattered life- and blog-wise, even with Mama's transplant. Ah, well.
I have also been enjoying Sometimes The Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life by Terry Brooks. Critiquemate Teresa presented it to me after last month's meeting, and after reading the first chapter, "I Am Not All Here," I can see why she did. It was as if Brooks was digging around in my mind instead of his own, telling my truth, and she knew that would be my reaction. Two of my favorite passages go thusly:
Writing is life; you've heard that one, haven't you? Writers need their writing; they need their imaginery worlds in order to find peace in, or make sense of, the real world.
So when my family and friends discover I am not listening to them or they catch me staring off into space, I can't do a thing about it, because that's just the way I am. It is the way all writers are, I suspect. The muse whispers to you when she chooses, and you can't tell her to come back later because you quickly learn in this business that she might not come back at all.
The book is turning out to be as interesting a writing guide as it is Brook's self-portrait.
Anyhooo, thanks for listening, peeps, and keep fighting the good fight. Everything will be a-okay. If a family pet can find its beloved owners again over thousands of miles, all by itself, I dare say my focus will return as well.
Come on home, Cleopatra.