All this time and no new post. Seems you have to have something of value to say… figured that I didn’t so why waste anyone’s time, right? Not that I have anything remarkable or earth shattering to say now. Checking in, exorcising demons… flexing the brain in hope that the muses come back.
And they already have… more on that in a minute.
Been an eventful year thus far. Working steadily for the past seven months (unlike this time last year), finished my first novel, saw my eldest daughter pass her state boards to become a certified nursing assistant after she paid for 80% of her tuition, saw my youngest daughter get accepted into one of the most prestigious acting schools on the planet and last, but not least, have completely transformed my body from a 265lb blob to a 230lb (and dropping), leaned-out dude with one last layer of fat hiding a six-pack that I NEVER thought would be seen on this body in this lifetime.
It occurred to me less than five minutes ago that I may have missed my calling. Did the rock / r&b drummer thing (loved it, miss it!), me and Excel are tighter than pantyhose two sizes too small but accounting is a bit, well, soulless. I love, love, LOVE writing!
Expected a “but”, didn’t you? No buts on that one, I love to write! Still determining the difference between writer and storyteller because I don’t like to use a lot of words. I often feel inadequate because my style is so raw and lean compared to the average author. On the other hand, my readers (the ones I’ve discussed this with) think that it sets me apart. I liken my style to The Atkins Diet: all protein, no carbs. But I digress to…
We won’t even get into it. Nope, don’t ask cause I damn sure won’t tell.
“No more self-imposed deadlines” is my mantra for 2012. Not a new year’s resolution because… wait.
Yeah, it is a resolution, huh? Sigh.
That’s me. Zero confidence in my writing. Not writer’s block. Creating content isn’t the problem. Reread my recent work on Chapter 20 and it was garbage.
It was a rushed four-paragraph, section of a first draft. In other words, it should have been garbage.
Wanted to finished in October, work on the second draft through the end of the year. Didn’t quite work out as planned.
…and that’s alright!
“Akil, I went to my first book signing today.”
“What? I didn’t know you finished the book!”
-Conversation between my brother and I on Sunday night.
Never been to a book signing before but my old friend Kat (feel free to like her Facebook page here) works with an author named Colette Freedman who had two signings in the L.A. area this past weekend to support her week-old release, The Thirteen Hallows. I forgot about Friday’s event in Pasadena but Kat was kind enough to text me on Saturday night with a reminder about Sunday afternoon’s event in Burbank. I agreed to go and then looked up Colette’s bio…
Almost had an anxiety attack five minutes later.
That last post wore me out. So sick, sick, sick of That Story That Shan’t be Named, need a dose of “light and breezy” for sanity’s sake. Have one in mind that’s disturbing yet humorous, a suitable antidote to last week’s poison. Must ask a qualifying question first:
Ever walked in on your parents having sex?
If the answer is “yes”, then EWWWWW! THAT MESS NEVER HAPPENED TO ME, SO “HA”! I did hear my mother having sex once. Shit scarred me for life.
I was 20.
What do you do when you don’t feel it, when creating art feels like 10 parts chore, 0 parts joy?
I’ve only written one blog in the past week so what should I do? Try to force something out that will make the stats climb again, build interest, blah blah blah?
The truth is that I’m not that interested right now. I mean, I am but there’s big wide world (of sports?) out there to explore and I sat in the house for the better part of a year. It’s time to live, go on adventures, find inspiration that will fuel the writing.
Which means that it isn’t time to write some transparent, paper-thin crap that feels like a reach at best. All my artist friends will be able to relate to the following: