Sunday, July 31, 2016
COMING SOON
Decided to start blogging again soon about all of the new things I'm up to... and maybe a blog redesign!
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
blank is safe
Writing is too personal. You'd think, with someone as cynical as me, I could come up with a library of tension to develop in my characters. But pain is too personal, not only for myself but for everyone. Sometimes I tell myself it won't be so bad--I'll just shut my eyes and hit "publish" and everything will be fine as long as there is ignorance, right?
And many times, no one sees it anyways. But it's still too uncomfortable. Not only could someone have read your work without you knowing and realize how human you are, you might also have to face something far worse than the secret judgement of your friends. You might actually have to confront something in your life that you purposely ignore.
Art is a strange thing. There's really no way to go about it that isn't personal. There shouldn't be, anyway. Then what would be the point of art?
And many times, no one sees it anyways. But it's still too uncomfortable. Not only could someone have read your work without you knowing and realize how human you are, you might also have to face something far worse than the secret judgement of your friends. You might actually have to confront something in your life that you purposely ignore.
Art is a strange thing. There's really no way to go about it that isn't personal. There shouldn't be, anyway. Then what would be the point of art?
Thursday, July 3, 2014
The interwebs of creative death.
Alas! A storm wiped
the database last night, powering down the entire core and striking the
mainframe cold. That is to say, the power went off last night and now nothing
can seem to revive it. It feels very wrong to be writing a blog post without
internet streaming along the walls of this virtual space like it should be.
The funny thing about
this blog is that I only come to it when I should be writing elsewhere. When I don’t have an incoming data connection, my cyborg side pulls a
Hamlet muscle and my human instinct kicks in. I suppose “they” are right when
it is said that the best way to get writing done is to unplug.
Sure, words are all
fine and good when your internet is inaccessible and a random three-hour power
failure occurs in the middle of the day (gotta love that urban living, folks).
The real challenge is when that temptation is reachable. Many time I work a long shift and all I want to do is vegetate in front of Youtube for hours afterward. But that isn't always the case. I try to switch wifi
off on occasion, usually only lasting ten minutes before I want to check my
email or bank account or something. It really makes me question my motivation
in life when all I can think about is finishing a scene so I can view Facebook
notifications and make sure no one shared
a “What Disney Princess are You?” quiz, because those are so much more
important than art and accomplishment and a complete piece of work, right? Ugh,
talk about twisted priorities.
In the Christian
church, we talk about learning from the struggles. Most of the time it sounds
like a loaded excuse to take a mistake you made and put it off on God. But then
there are the times when I get caught up in something that isn’t fruitful, and
when the opportunity to continue down that road ends but I’m still tangled in
the temptation of it, my eyes look right into a mirror. Inconvenience is one of
the best teachers out there, as far as I’m concerned.
Does that mean the
solution for me is to take the difficult path?
I have no idea why
blogging brings out the snark in me. Kind of like that a bit. If I got nothing
else from this situation, I got the right attitude to finally develop that
Queen Overlord sitting amongst the dregs of plot notes. And a 500 word blog
post. The power isn’t even back on yet, who knows what I’ll do! *maniacal
laughter*
If you even dare make
a comment about how I should have “rebooted the modem” I’m making you the
expendable villain in my next story. You have been warned.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Ms. Q, Interrupted
Busily typing. Much words. Eloquence and story glue paste across my screen as I finally make some headway with my interstellar enigma of a character Ms. Q, not to be confused with the spy because Ms. Q isn't actually her full name and she contains zero grams of stealth capabilities.
Phone. Cleverly prerecorded telemarketers and a persistent father later: phone smash. I'm the only person on Earth that wishes to not own a phone. I submit to the general public more acceptable file formats for communication transfers to my office:
Telegraph
Homing pigeons
Pony Express
I'll even tip with carrots!
Now I'm found with an hour less than I had before, and only a silly little graphic to raise awareness of the plight of Incoming Distractions. Though I suppose, until I actually finish one of these darn novels I won't have any more rights than other folks to officially be registered as a part-time hermit. You have to have serious creds to get a license these days. Maybe I should steal one from this certain Ms. Q, whose entire existence is spent in ice caves and small space ships.
Until I get a dimension hopper or a Hermits United card, however, I must pause my negotiations with character development and go out into the sun for the afternoon. Another day, another life lesson. Maybe I'll come across a person that has some really freaky laugh that catalyzes this entire character arc. Or perhaps not, as I'm likely to be trading one computer screen with another for the duration of remaining coherency hours. Tot ziens hippie knitters!
*disclaimer: I'm not usually this unsociable, just cranky that I only receive incoming distractions when I happen to be focusing!
Phone. Cleverly prerecorded telemarketers and a persistent father later: phone smash. I'm the only person on Earth that wishes to not own a phone. I submit to the general public more acceptable file formats for communication transfers to my office:
Telegraph
Homing pigeons
Pony Express
I'll even tip with carrots!
Now I'm found with an hour less than I had before, and only a silly little graphic to raise awareness of the plight of Incoming Distractions. Though I suppose, until I actually finish one of these darn novels I won't have any more rights than other folks to officially be registered as a part-time hermit. You have to have serious creds to get a license these days. Maybe I should steal one from this certain Ms. Q, whose entire existence is spent in ice caves and small space ships.
*disclaimer: I'm not usually this unsociable, just cranky that I only receive incoming distractions when I happen to be focusing!
Monday, May 5, 2014
Word Heights
The only thing worse than the fear of bad writing is the fear of a blank page. You could probably do a scientific article on this subject and find this to be true for most writers. Filling a blank page is one of the hardest things there is in writing, whether it’s a grade school essay or a scene in your novel.
For most cases this
type of writer’s block doesn’t even have to do with a lack of ideas, but the visualization
of that scene in your head, and the massive cliff you’re going to have to
climb up to get through it. Sometimes I block off my fear of word-heights by
closing my eyes (as I’m typing now) or covering my screen with a blanket and
listening to instrumental music so the only thing my brain can wander through are these words (ye olde brain is not much of a multi-tasker).
I find it hilarious
to read through writing magazines and come across these loaded pieces of advice
about writer’s block, like you can get a college degree in anti-procrastination
and high-concept idea making. You probably can, but I still think that when you are a writer, you can’t really be taught how to get
ideas. You have to search and find the way by yourself, because writing is all
about the journey of life through your hands. While most of us probably use tools such as
images and prompts, we all use them in different ways.
Learn how to use
words as your tools. Pay attention to what makes ideas click in your head. Pay
attention to what you’re trying to say, and hardwire a failsafe against your
urge to procrastinate. Make sure that the second you think "Facebook is a click away" you finish the sentence with "from missing out on the best paragraph I've written in my life".
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Back in the Day
No matter how arduous, painful, and disappointing writing might seem, I will always love it. When I was a little girl I didn't think I had a dream that would take me into adulthood. I never proclaimed to want a particular profession, and sometimes I would cry in despair for lack of a real "hobby". Little did I know, it was there. I just didn't see it, because I was having so much fun.
From the time I started reading seriously in first grade, I made the decision to be a writer. Why? Because I couldn't stand when stories ended in a way contrary to the way I imagined them ending.
My first ever story was about my cat Scout and scrawled in a spiral-bound book with a kitten on the front. Far from a masterpiece, but a story from my heart all the same. People (mainly teachers and adults) didn't like my stories, but I tried not to care because I was writing the stories that I wanted to tell.
It was hard, though. Not many people had faith in my work, and most writing advice includes the warning "there's a 99 percent chance you won't be very good or successful". For the past few years I have been afraid of writing. I'm no Shakespeare or Austen, so I should probably find some sort of "real job", right? But looking back at where I came from, and how I took something I didn't even consider a hobby and worked at it and worked at it and improved and anguished and enjoyed... well suddenly I don't feel so scared anymore. Coming up with stories and exploring people's reasoning is my oxygen, not my job or a servitude.
That's how I know I'm a writer.
From the time I started reading seriously in first grade, I made the decision to be a writer. Why? Because I couldn't stand when stories ended in a way contrary to the way I imagined them ending.
My first ever story was about my cat Scout and scrawled in a spiral-bound book with a kitten on the front. Far from a masterpiece, but a story from my heart all the same. People (mainly teachers and adults) didn't like my stories, but I tried not to care because I was writing the stories that I wanted to tell.
The Queen Cat by Jessica Verve, age 8
It was hard, though. Not many people had faith in my work, and most writing advice includes the warning "there's a 99 percent chance you won't be very good or successful". For the past few years I have been afraid of writing. I'm no Shakespeare or Austen, so I should probably find some sort of "real job", right? But looking back at where I came from, and how I took something I didn't even consider a hobby and worked at it and worked at it and improved and anguished and enjoyed... well suddenly I don't feel so scared anymore. Coming up with stories and exploring people's reasoning is my oxygen, not my job or a servitude.
That's how I know I'm a writer.
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