Wednesday, 13 November 2013

I seem to have forgotten to put on pants...

It's all blowing in the wind. Metaphorically speaking, and about writing. Not my wedding bells.

So, here's the story so far...

I sat down to write a story I'd been contracted to write. I enjoyed it in parts, others, I found hard. The second draft, really. I don't like to go over my own work. I like it done, dusted, submitted.

Then, story done (it's called The Setting Sky), I'm sitting on my arse, getting miserable. Because if I don't do two things regularly, I get glum. These two things are: write, and exercise.

And I am getting glum, gloomy, get the picture.

Writing's the answer. But, here's the thing: I have no pants on. None at all.

Stage fright, maybe? Is that a metaphor for stage fright? Performance anxiety?

Maybe. Probably. I'm just thinking out loud, as it were.

I think it's stage fright, because suddenly I'm worried about what people want, what they think, what they want to read. I'm not saying I don't usually care (readers are pretty bloody important to a writer...otherwise writing's a purely solitary affair, a bit like having a hand shandy in the bath.), because I do. It's important.

But it's not everything, and nor, I think, should it be. I'm not a writing guru (check out Joe Lansdale's twitter feed if you want a guru - I'm not being flippant - he's awesome). But I do have thoughts on writing, because, well, it's what I do.

I figure in order to keep the gloomies at bay, I need to write...but I need to write what I want. Selfish, yes, but essential. I can write to order. I do, from time to time. But I don't enjoy it.

I started writing because I enjoy it. I want that feeling back.

So, anyway, turns out the pants thing was kind of irrelevant, because all I wanted to say was that I started a new book a couple of days ago. Hoping it's a keeper.

Love you. Thanks for listening, dear (two) readers, and the Internet - my psychologist.



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