Before you do anything, you must read a short comic. THIS one. It made me laugh very hard and started my morning out well.
Right, on with it. I got no writing done yesterday at all. I was too distracted by nerves, so instead I let myself have a day to muck around. I must get to work today. My usual day off, Friday, will be spent writing. Not only will I have to write the next bit of Your Very Own Adventure Project and then catch up on my word count for Daughters of Britain. Sigh. I do these things to myself.
You know, I had a great topic for today's blog post, and now I can't remember what it was supposed to be about. I hate my brain sometimes.
Perhaps It was about the importance of sleep, because I'm certain that lack of it is what is driving my forgetfulness. That and I'm deeply involved in the story I am writing. All other thoughts tend to fly out the window when the story is running through my mind... It's actually a good sign for the story.
Maybe I was going to talk about momentum? As you all know, writing Human took me all damned year. I just couldn't get the ball rolling on that story. It made a stark change from writing Skylark, which was really fast to write, and it was frustrating as hell. With Skylark, I had no problems reaching the daily 3 000 word count, and I was even on such a roll I sometimes skipped training to keep writing, once breeching 7 000 words in a day. It was glorious!
Human, not so much.
And now, Daughters of Britain appears to have recaptured at least some of the momentum I thought I had lost.... If we ignore yesterday. Writing this one has been relatively easy and while I haven't had the same rush of words I did with Skylark, it is coming much easier than Human ever did. I am so grateful for this.
Writing is such an odd profession, really. It is the contradiction of a solitary endeavour designed purely to reach out to people; hiding from the world in order to communicate with it. At times it is so very joyous and at other times, it is the most frustrating endeavour I've ever undertaken. And there is no grand pay off at the end. There is no boss on your shoulder nodding their approval, there isn't a raise at the end of the work, there isn't anything after months of solitary silence but more solitary silence.
However much work it takes to write a manuscript, the work has only just begun. Before a writer with a finished manuscript yawns a painful eternity (not literally... the eternity part. It is painful) of editing and then, if we manage to slog our way through that, there is the long, tiresome and often painful quest for publication. Even if we get published, there's the long, hard task of finding readers for our work. If we cannot find enough readers, then publishers drop us like a hot potato and all that work, from beginning the manuscript on, would have been for nothing.
Sounds appealing, no?
That was sarcasm, by the way.
Knowing all of this, I sometimes ponder why people bother at all. Is it because people think that every writer is as fortunate as J.K. Rowling; that every writer must be rolling in money for doing nothing but jotting down a story or two? A quick Google search will reveal article after depressing article that reveals that this is far from the case. In fact, the possibility of a writer earning enough to support themselves is becoming slimmer and slimmer with each passing year; it is the ultimate fantasy. Not to mention people don't quite understand the amount of work that goes into producing a story - of any length.
The answer is different for every writer, I suppose. For myself, I can't not write. I've said it before. Even if I had not decided to self-publish, I would have a collection of manuscripts and stories, and I would be adding to it constantly. They just would never see the light of day.
I remember in university, when I ought to have been studying or working on my papers, I was writing. I spent more time in University on my writing than I did on my school work. As a result, I was always up late the night before a paper was due, getting started on the first draft of the essay.
I would be lying if I didn't find the prospect of critical acclaim, of massive popular appeal, the satisfaction of walking on a bus and seeing someone reading a book I had written (it hasn't happened... yet?). And even the slim possibility that I might yet be able to earn a living doing nothing but writing is incredibly enticing for me. These are true.
But the real truth is that I would be writing regardless, so I might as well try to do something with it.
Well, this blog post was entirely directionless. I was just spewing thoughts onto a page, as I do. I think I should stop now and get to work.