Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Just Keep

Blastoff.
I felt sorry for myself earlier this evening and drowned my sorrows for a while. This is normal.

Given that I boldly stated that I was essentially a happy person a couple of days ago,  it's time to resume that most fleeting and desired state of being. The event that caused the down feelings is gone, the feelings are past and hey - it's a new day tomorrow.

Sometimes it's easy to move forward and sometimes it's not. That slope is slippery and if it's been raining then the possibility of a terrible mudslide makes moving forward an adventure, doesn't it? It wasn't the two beers per se, but the time spent sipping them that allowed the feelings to pass. Time is the cure for the I don't wanna do this any more blues.

For me at least. In this case.

Still, frustration will dig its grubby little double-barbed, rusty hooks in if I let it. Can't do that. Gotta let it go like water off a duck's back.

Don't let the bastards grind you down. Punch back. Kick hard. Stab for all you're worth. Never give up. (Never surrender!)

Heh.

Tomorrow before sunrise I stand, ready to be knocked down again. C'mon, who's with me?

The Pile

The desk is calling to me.
Good ol' Chuck Wendig popped into my head this morning on my daily walk:

Finish your shit.

But I have, I tell the ghostly voice in my head. I've got a novella, a novel, three or four short stories that are done. The drafts are finished. They're almost ready to go out to my trusted beta readers.

Fiiiiiniiiiishhh yoooooouuuuurrrrr shiiiiiit.

Dammit.

He's right. He caught the 'almost' I threw in there. I've got the write as fast as you can part down. I'm pretty good at that. I've even got editing my stuff into a readable draft covered. But actually 'finishing', meaning taking that story to a level where it's really ready to run naked out into the world, well - that I'm not so good at yet.

This requires a good deal of focus. What gets in the way are all the other ideas that have been waiting patiently in the green room of my head to get on stage. They're all clamoring for time in the light and time is the commodity I have little of. Of course, that's an excuse. I could find more time to write if I watched less TV, spent less time noodling around on Facebook and Twitter and playing Words With Friends.

All my excuses suck. I guess I haven't figured that part out yet.

Time to finish my shit.