Never ending cocoon

Warren Ellis posted this to his website last night. While I believe there's a hint of mockery to it, wherein deep down, he loves his life, I also long for the reputations that deadlines hold. Not only does it add fuel to the motivation fire, deadlines feed that hunger to be needed and read.

This is the stage most writers never make: gestation. I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, bordering on drowsy, with the urge to put pen to paper pounding in my chest. Paycheck job was hard this week, and will be for the next month. I'm going to be physically exhausted at the end of days to come, yet guilt over not reading my The Elements of Style drives me to want to drink. I should give myself a break, because I'll have time after I loose my job. Yet, time weighs on me like the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I feel as if my wings are trapped to my back. Squirming and wiggling, they're never quite comfortable trapped in this cocoon. Yet, I'm not strong enough to break free. I cannot imagine living the rest of my life in the circular, compact husk. While I know I'll never be comfortable, that's not in the cards for any artist, I wish for a different type of discomfort now.

Hard than most

Miss Snark said each writer needs two of this book: The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life, by Twyla Tharp. Immediately, I ordered the paperback from Amazon. It arrived Friday.

I am scared.

Eight pages in, she debunks the whole theory that talent or "being kissed by God" will be enough to propel any artist to greatness. Based on her own life and the lives of other creative geniuses, she uses Mozart as an example, she states that being creative is nothing more than hard work.

Hard work. That's it? That's all? Crap in a hat.

A very good, trusted friend pulled my butt out of the self-flagulating, depressive fire recently. As I tore through two grammar books and a book on writing, I fell into this pit. Being dyslexic, how could I ever hope to become published? Swing a dead cat, I could hit someone saying, "I'm trying to write here!"

What's the point, right? At least, that's what I was thinking until my friend said, "So? It means you'll have to work harder. That's all."

That's all.

I can do that. I can read books about grammar and writing. I can read blogs and journals of writers, editors and creative-types, mining what I can about what it is I want to do. I can tear apart books with sharp teeth like a starving wolf, digesting their meaty, gory substance. And I can write, sculpt, and proof. I can put my stuff out there.

I can.

That scares the fucking shit out of me.

Okay, when did the tornado hit and take me over the rainbow?

I received a new "post" at MySpace.com. Granted, I never use my MySpace.com account unless it's to bitch about MySpace.com. However, some user read my bio and sent me something. Information on a new speculative fiction magazine that's slated for print this Fall. They're looking for "enjoyable, character-oriented stories which engage the reader." No word count limit, no other guildlines beyond that; a featured story chosen will receive $50.

On the website, it reads 150 days to submit. I wonder if I could produce something worth publishing in that time.

Take a bath

I want to know what the fuck it is about warm water that effects my brain. I cannot take a shower or a bath without some fucking great piece of writing hitting my brain about half way through the cleaning process. I know, I know, I hear you - don't complain. But if I can find out why warm water on my skin turns me fucking Walt Whitman, maybe I can duplicate it when I'm in front of the goddamn computer screen.

Writing Rant

2,394 words. I wrote, sculpted and proofed 2,294 words on Saturday.

Impressed? Don't be. I wrote them for a role-playing forum. I'm setting up the game world for other to play in. Nothing payable or publishible.

That bugs me. I console my gnawing innards with the balm of "I'm working out my writing process." I am. Starting from scratch, I'm relearning grammar. Instead of masturbating on the page, I'm masturbating, forming the spew into a child and infusing it with life. I hope. That's the idea.

I'm making sperm babies. Heh.

Fah, I have these flash, moments I believe. Dillusions that live long enough to walk through my chamber of self-doubting fire. They're only ghosts, specters, things of fluff and smoke.

I have to keep telling myself: this is going to be harder for me than others. I'm going to have to work harder, keep myself down to make myself strong enough to make it. I can't be weak. I can't be idealic or fanciful.

Mean. Snarling. Rough.

That's hard to do if I'm the least bit tired. Like now. I have more to write, but I'm so whipped that I can't even hold creative thoughts in my head. Like water, they dribble out my ears and down my back. I don't even get to see them.

A friend said I'm too hard on myself. If not me, then who will be? Time passes in a blink of an eye. I can't wait for good fortune to come find me in time. At least, I have to meet her halfway, right?