Couldn’t think of a title so randomly punches the phone’s autocue. Sorry about that.
In other news, the day with the Weight Swingers appears to have been productive. Orchid is hopeful that the kids will be properly served by the legal system. She’s my silver lining girl, so it was going to pan out that way. Me, I’m a little older and a lot more cynical so I’ll save the sapphire complexion for a sure thing.
We did get back earlier than intendes though, which was good. I actually managed to get some words down on Wolf Mama. Somewhere along the line I lost my original outline so scribbled down a quick replacement. Funny thing is, I came up with enough material to get a novella from it. Somehow the story has become a lot darker, but the ending feels a lot more satisfactory. Without giving too much away, I think I can capture something resembling the horrors of choice that parenthood thrusts upon you. (It’s only fair to point out the seedlings aren’t ‘mine’, but in the same breath the bloody well are, if you catch my drift).
Anyway, that’s enough from me. I’m off for a snuggle.
Time. Where the hell does it go? I know at least two weeks have vanished since I last updated, but I’ll be damned if I can say where they went! Same’s true for Wolf Mama. Due to various other duties, I’ve not got a word in on that. Poor old Clara is frozen in time, riding back to her cabin with a gun in her hand and terror in her chest.
It doesn’t look like I’ll be getting any work in today either. Long story short but, of course, it revolves around the UK’s
clown show legal system and a rather unsavoury jerk.
Hopefully I’ll be able to steal an hour or two tomorrow!
Right, I have to go get ready.
January’s gone. The maddening dance around courts and social services has eased down to a white noise rasp in the back of our heads. Our campaign to keep the seedlings safe from the Corrupter’s influence has hit a quiet spot. January has washed away into the time stream. I’ve got nothing done.
Well, obviously I’ve got some things done. There’s a lovely base in Orchid’s settlement waiting for walls and a roof. Since the day job has been quiet, I’m putting up a nice big wooden structure for her. It’ll help her business no end. She’s over the moon. Books have been read, kids have been entertained and educated. Battle Cat has been to the infirmary so many times we’re both dizzy. She’s okay now. The dogs have worn my legs to bloody stumps along the highways and byways of my forest home.
January was mostly taking care of small things. Important things, but small. The big things, the things I write about here, are another story. My brain’s still trapped in a spot of molasses thick enough to drown my creativity and clog my thoughts. If I’m honest, panic had started to set in.
With no work (long story) and no words, things were looking bleak. Kindle sales had taken a big enough rest to get my pores leaking and my chest poundings. Two years ago I could have wound in the belt and survived off packet soup and cheap coffee. With four extra face holes to cram doughnuts into, that’s no longer an option.
Fear’s a funny thing. It’s a feeling, sure, but it’s also a set of options. Choice one, grab your trainers and head for the hills. Choice two, reach for a mighty great stick and start swinging. I’ve been dodging around the lack of words for a little while now and, since I’ve never been the most physically fit specimen, it’s time to grab a bludgeon and whack away until the words start falling.
I have an idea, you see, and strangely enough it’s about terror and motherhood.
I’m thinking of retitling the blog.
Back in August, I had reached the last stages of editing a collection of sci fi shorts. I’d also started work on a longer space opera piece that involved swaggering through distant galaxies trying to not get shot up by bloodthirsty pirates. I probably gave working titles and expected publication dates to any who come here. As usual, when the appointed hour arrived, I was nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, I find myself on the sidelines of a legal dispute. Orchid’s ex is not only an idiot, but also the lowest form of scum. His constant imput into our lives is becoming more than a little troublesome.
Luckily (?), due the current economic uncertainty in this fair, triangular isle to the west of Gaul, I’ve had very little work since my last post and have had plenty of time to engage in a battle that I don’t particularly want and, with Twain’s famous words in mind, probably can’t win.
Hopefully, the above will be explanation enough as to why my output dropped below my customary ‘not very much’.
As with everything in life, there are peaks to counteract the troughs. A few days ago, I read an article on Dean Wesley Smith’s website (search pulp speed to find it). It’s a brief look at the jaw-dropping output of the ‘old timey’ masters who lived well (enough) on a cent a word. After reading it, I opened my kindle and devoured DWS’s book Writing into the Dark.
As ever, Mr Smith’s book filled me with the urge to get down the words that had been lurking at the edges of my brain fog. With every page I finished, I remembered why I started writing over 3 decades ago, how much I get from it and how stupid I’d been to worry myself into mental paralysis.
I doubt Mr Smith’s section on overcoming the inner critic was written with the intention of reminding a hack across the Atlantic that the only way to overcome obstacles is roll up one’s sleeves and imitate Dr. David Banner’s less socially aware alter-ego, but there you have it.
For a little under a week, I’ve been working on a project set in the same universe as Scavenger Hunt. It’s not a sequel, but I’ve managed to grind my teeth and churn out around 1000 words. Admittedly that’s not a touch on Smith’s Pulp Speed 1, but it’s an improvement on recent tallies and something I damned well intend to continue.
Again, of course, troughs dwell behind the peaks and today I had to bury my poor cat.
Maybe I should retitle the blog after all.