Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category
Sunday Musings: Do You Recognize the Person in the Mirror?
Folks, it’s Sunday. That means it’s time for me to write something with a bit more depth, perhaps…or at least something more elliptical, as suits my mood.
Enjoy!
After my husband Michael died, for a few years I did not recognize myself in the mirror. That’s just a fact.
“But Barb,” you ask. “Why are you talking about this now?”
I wonder how many of us have had times where we didn’t recognize ourselves, as I can’t be the first (and probably won’t be the last, alas) to have had this phenomenon happen. And I wonder, too, if that fuels my need for stories. Because every story I’ve told has dealt with a realization, or a transformation, or sometimes both…and the person who starts the book has had to realize his or her inner truths by the end, or else.**
See, the thing about humans is, we often don’t confront problems until we absolutely have to. This is especially dicey when the problem is something you couldn’t have ever foreseen, such as the coronavirus (COVID-19), or the way-too-early death of your spouse. The latter hits you like a ton of bricks, and you literally aren’t exactly the same as you were before due to your grief and rage and hopelessness, though the essentials of you are still there and can be dug out again in time
But there’s the former group of people out there — I have occasionally been among them, too — where we know there are problems in our lives, but we don’t have a clue how to fix them. Maybe we’re trying to fix them. Maybe we aren’t. But we procrastinate, hoping that circumstances or perhaps a miracle from the Deity high above will bring clarity…and our problems don’t get solved.
Sometimes the consequences of refusing to solve problems — mostly because we don’t like the solutions we come up with — are worse than just dealing with the problem to begin with.
The easiest example I have of this phenomenon is with a non-working toaster. If you try to keep using that toaster, when you know it’s sparking from the elements being exposed (the wiring, perhaps, has gone bad), you’re going to blow up your house. It’s a lot easier to just go buy a new toaster than to keep using the old one, no matter how much you liked that old one because it always toasted the bread perfectly every time…at least, until the wires got messed up and started sparking energy off all over the place.
Of course, human relationships are much more difficult most of the time than this above problem. Still, as Mark Manson has put it — and many others before him — there’s something called a “sunk-cost fallacy.” The quickest way to explain this is, “I’ve been with my husband for seven years. Yeah, things are bad. But I love him, and I think he can change…”
(This example is drawn from my life. My first husband, later my first ex-husband, was a good man in many ways but utterly wrong for me. Just as I was utterly wrong for him. We eventually both figured that out and got out of the marriage, which was just as well. I found Michael later, and he was the right man for me. And my ex found the right person for him, so it all, eventually, worked out for the best.)
Now, I did go to counseling the whole time. I tried to learn more about myself, and why I had picked my ex in the first place. I also figured out, due to counseling, that while people can change, it’s up to them to do it. You can’t make them do it. You can’t even assist them in doing it. They will either do it, or don’t, on their own.
I’ve had friends married to alcoholics who’ve learned the same thing, mind. They know it’s not up to them to stop their spouse from drinking. They can’t. All they can do is control their own behavior.
So, what I learned there is, no matter what good points your spouse may have, it’s up to him to use them. Or not.
And sometimes, we love people who aren’t good for us. Or who once were, but stopped being so, and now have no intention whatsoever to grow with you in a long-term relationship or marriage, mostly because they can’t help being themselves.
The good news is, if you are in a situation where you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror because of your own choices, or because life hit you like a ton of bricks, you can feel better about yourself. Over time, if you keep working on yourself, and read books, and educate yourself, and learn more about who you are and what you truly want (rather than what you think you want), you should find people who will want to grow with you. And who will appreciate your uniqueness, just because they know they, themselves, are appreciated by you for their uniqueness in turn.
It does take a while. It’s not a quick fix by any means. But living your life, and continuing to be your best self, and remembering what it was about yourself that you liked before life hit you like a ton of bricks — or before you stayed in your marriage too long after it had clearly died (and everyone knew it but you) — that’s the best way to go about it.
If you can do that, you can find some inner peace. You will know you’ve done your best in whatever situation you find yourself. And you can pick up the pieces again, and start over (or at least afresh), because you have learned over time that you, too, matter.
Not just your significant other.
_________
**(Before you start on my gender-fluid heroine Elaine from CHANGING FACES, Elaine liked the pronoun “she” even when she was feeling male. There are people who like pronouns that don’t seemingly go with their outward selves, too, in this world, including a growing number who prefer “they” as they prefer not to be categorized for various reasons. Non-binary people, mostly, are in this category; gender-fluid people also can easily be in this category, though Elaine herself is not.)
Thinking Hard…Or Something Like That
The last few days, I’ve been thinking hard about a manuscript I’m editing. While I do this on a regular basis, I don’t always have to stop and think for several days in a row. But that’s why I decided to write this blog, as I thought it might interest someone out there…and at least it’s something different.
When I am editing a manuscript, I tend to narrow down to a laser-like focus. (An actual laser, of course, would wreck my computer.) There are many things I look for, including continuity issues, clarity of thought, whether there’s enough description (or, very occasionally, if there’s too much that has to be pruned away), and much more.
But the one thing that always makes me stop and think about a book in a lengthy series is this: Will this book represent the series to date as it stands? And if it doesn’t, what does it need in order to do so?
When you’re in a series, readers have an expectation of how well-known characters are going to act. Even if the characters are doing something completely different — as they should, or you’re just writing the same book over and over (and what in the Hell is the point of that, anyway?) — the way a character acts has to ring true.
Right now I have two different series books by two different authors on the table. One, right off, I told the author I loved it and I thought she got her characterization down cold. For the second book with the second author, I said that I enjoyed the book, but it needs more in several places to flesh it out some in order to make it truly shine.
Mind, when I realize a book is missing something, sometimes it takes me a few days to figure out just exactly what that is, much less what I can suggest to fix it. Here, I saw some of the issues right away, but not necessarily all. And until my mind figures out enough that I can go back to the manuscript with, I have to leave that manuscript alone until it does.
It’s most vexing, trust me.
Anyway, I once read an interview with a writer who said that her subconscious mind blocks her if she is missing something in a plot. I sometimes wonder if that is what’s going on with me with regards to editing someone else’s work in a situation like this.
What I’m going to have to do is, with that second author/second book I’m talking about, is hope that I can sleep on the problem and wake up with a solution. (With the first book/first author, it’s just a matter of me finishing up the second editorial pass, then sending it on its merry way.) The author in question is very good with making changes, so once I figure it out I’m sure my input will be understood and taken into account.
(When you edit independently, as I often do, all you can do is suggest. You can’t insist, as that won’t get you anywhere. If your suggestions are cogent, usually an author dealing with you is going to try his/her/their best to address your editorial concerns.)
So, at the moment I’m thinking hard, but coming up empty.
Other than that, I did want to clue you in on an interesting blog I intend to write later today or tomorrow on behalf of writer Kayelle Allen. Her newest book is called SURRENDER LOVE, and it’s a far-future male/male romance. I loved working on this, as one of the two men in the relationship, Izzorah (or Izzy for short) is just a sweetheart. Izzy has empathy to burn, and I enjoy seeing that in my romances. The far-future stuff is all well-done, too. And the other man in the relationship, Luc, is complex, sometimes difficult, but takes on new dimensions once he gets involved with Izzy. (If you think you’ve seen me talk about Luc before, you’re right. He’s also the hero of A STOLEN HEART, a lovely story about an alienated man fostering a three-year-old half-human, half-alien child, and how that relationship between them changes Luc for the better.)
So, look for me to talk more about that later. (I still have plenty to say about Luc, Izzy, and their milieu.)
What did you think of this blog? Do you have any tips or tricks you use when editing either for yourself or someone else when you get stalled? Tell me about it in the comments!
A Writing Snippet from KEISHA’S VOW (Elfy prequel set in 1954)
Folks, I didn’t forget my promise. So without further ado, here’s chapter 1 from KEISHA’S VOW, the work-in-progress prequel to the Elfy novels that’s set in 1954.
Here we go:
Chapter 1 from Keisha’s Vow, a work-in-progress from Barb Caffrey (yours truly):
The Master waited, exultant. Soon they’ll be here, he thought. He had prepared for this day, dreamed of it, shaped his will toward it, and now…wait, was that a car in the distance?
No, not them, he thought as he made one last pass around the campsite. The runes were all inscribed, but blended into the rock as to be well-nigh invisible; his followers, innocents all, shouldn’t suspect a thing. He had already paced out the boundaries of his chosen ground, and he’d — well, he couldn’t really call it a blessing, could he? But by whatever name anyone cared to call it, he had imposed his will upon the land underfoot. It lay, quiescent, its power dormant as was proper for this time of the year; only thus was he able to command it. If this had been high summer he wouldn’t have been able to do anything on an unprepared field, even on a night like this, when the moon was at its darkest.
That was why he’d had to start laying the preparation now for what he planned to do later, because in the summer, he knew he would have to make his stand. How or why he knew this, he wasn’t sure, but only a fool refused to listen when the Dark Mother whispered into his ear.
And the Master was no fool.
But there was no more time for preparation: his followers were beginning to arrive. They came from far and near, from both directions on the small, rutted dirt road, in cars, estate wagons, and even a conveyance that looked like it had only recently been released from service as an Army ambulance. Anyone spotting them would not see anything other than a bunch of unusually late picnickers; his people looked no different from anyone else. And this was California; didn’t people always do strange things here? The Master knew that if any of them had been stopped, they’d have had a tight tale for the authorities.
Before they got close enough to him to see his face, he donned his hood and mask. They would expect that: their leaders had always gone cloaked (no one with any real power — political, social, economic — came openly to a meeting in this company). Despite the wards on his dusky robe, the power radiating from him, nobody took the slightest alarm. He wasn’t sure if they couldn’t feel the power, or if they misunderstood it; he smiled, knowing they could not see him, and waited for his prey as calmly as he possibly could.
He was satisfied; he’d told them to come here, a rural place nearly untouched by mankind, and they had obeyed him. Even though this place wasn’t close to anything, and some of them had to be fearful at dusk, they’d still come.
Ah, the poor, brave, deluded fools, he thought contemptuously. Still, they were his, and that’s all that really mattered.
He didn’t worry too much about anyone happening along; there were no farms or houses within a mile of where he stood, and the nearest town, a very small place called Knightsville, lay about five miles to the east by road. He lit his beacon fire with confidence and waited for his flock, even though time seemed to crawl…surely, he wasn’t that difficult to spot?
Men, women, and even a few children straggled from their cars. At least twenty, thought the Master. A good harvest. And the children — especially the children… They took out their robes and hid under them, as he had, partly to emulate him, partly because they knew it was required. Then they gathered together around the small fire he’d made, and lit their candles. Black, of course; what other candles were there?
It was February, and nothing stirred. The land was his to command, more dormant than he’d ever known it to be; perhaps it had really died this time. The Master did not know or care; the fact was that Dark of the Moon was nigh, and it was as close to Imbolc as they were going to get…the timing was right for their ritual.
He reached out with his mind and felt their commitment; only the youngest wondered what they were doing here, as was to be expected. He touched their young, small minds as lightly as possible, telling them without words that what they were doing was necessary and right. Their reservations dulled, faded.
Only then did the Master call out: “My children, hear me.” He spoke in a near-whisper, trying to make his words sound sacred rather than profane. These others didn’t have the will to understand the truth of what they did. But he did, and he was the leader.
He went on in his lowest tones, “We must work our Will upon the land this night, that its powers awaken to aid our betters afar.” He grimaced inwardly; he hated having to sound like such a simpleton. But it was required — his followers were almost childlike in their naïveté, and needed child-simple ideas to satisfy them — and it did work: his “disciples” nodded, the hoods of their robes flapping like so many bobbing ravens’ heads.
One of his followers — he knew and cared not which — produced a cage in which a plump, white rabbit lay amidst the remains of a bunny banquet: a few well-chewed stalks of celery, scraps of lettuce, and what was left of a carrot. That, too, had been his plan from the start: treat the creature well, until…
He focused his will upon the rabbit, and it slept. Such a small thing didn’t need to be aware of what they did; its innocence, even unto how it went out of its life, was enough. Silently, he pulled the rabbit out of its cage; it was gravid, as he’d hoped, meaning other, smaller lives would go unborn. Surely the Dark Mistress would be pleased; surely the death of innocents, more than one, would help Her cause… he laid the rabbit on a small, dark rock he’d prepared earlier. The runes, written in charcoal around the rock, blended into its natural coloration; only he could see them, wreathed in a dark, reddish fire visible only to astral sight. None of these had any astral sight to worry about; their mage gifts were marginal to nonexistent.
They would not understand what they were doing, and that, too, was part of his plan.
He took out his athame, black-hilted as was proper, with the blade looking just as black in the light of the fire, but actually encrusted with the remains of many a bloody sacrifice before this. He held it up so the light from his followers’ candles would reach it, then silently motioned them to their places. Without a word, they formed a semi-circle around the rock, facing toward him in the place of honor — naturally — on the other side of what was now their altar. Then he took the knife and did what was necessary, neatly severing the rabbit’s head and holding it up for all to see.
“Touch it; it’s dead, it’ll never harm you,” he said warmly, now in more normal, conversational tones. A few of the more daring souls indeed did this, but most shrank back.
Ah, yes. Time for the sermon.
“It is our will that we will have dominion over all the beasts of the field, from the last to the littlest, to the greatest and most able. We must show our dominance; we must not be afraid. Fear is a weapon in the hand of those who oppose us, those who would impose their ways on us.” His eyes caressed his followers; so pure, so noble-seeming did he make it sound. Some were afraid; he drank in their fear. But most were nodding again, willing tools to do his bidding.
He put down the head, then skinned the rabbit, saving for last the delicate and difficult task of scraping out the unborn pups. They’d nearly made it to life, poor things, he thought as he went about his work.
But these would not be the last sacrifices, he told his audience. They would meet again at the next dark-of-the-moon, and the one after, and on into the summer if necessary, until further notice. They had made a good beginning, he told them, but it was only a beginning, and they had to expand upon it and continue on in this way in order to do their betters’ work in the world. He tried to make it sound noble, but even he couldn’t make blood sacrifice sound all that much better than it was, so he concentrated instead upon necessity, and how all of this would eventually help them all.
His flock acquiesced, as he’d known they would; these were sheep, not really people, but in these times, even sheep like these were better than no one at all.
This place was now sealed to him, to do his bidding, even as he did the will of the Dark Mother…he bade his flock to dip their fingers in the blood he had spilled atop the makeshift stone altar; this they did, then put that blood to their lips.
Thus were innocents consecrated to the Dark.
The gathering dispersed, all but the Master returning to their vehicles and driving off the way they had come. The Master faded into the darkness and waited until everyone else was gone.
Only then did he take off his robes and mask, donning in their place a set of ordinary working man’s clothes and putting the symbols of his mastery away in an old surplus rucksack. There would be a reckoning, he knew; soon, somehow, there would be a reckoning. Soon he wouldn’t have to go veiled to the world; everyone would know that he, Victor Mundy, was the Master!
Then, rucksack on his back, he set off across the fields toward his small home on the outskirts of Knightsville, whistling in the dark.
Let the powers of Light try to stop me. If they dare.
*****
Do you want more? Tell me in the comments!
Thank the Deity, 2020 is Over…and Other Stuff
Folks, I wanted to start the New Year off right with a blog, but as you see, it took me a few days to write.
Why? Well, as I said in my last blog, I had a ton of editing to do in December. This is highly unusual but very welcome. (Publishing as a whole tends to take December off, I’ve found. Though the pandemic more or less uprooted everything, of course. As it does.)
I also am dealing with yet another sinus infection. This is frustrating me because it’s already getting in the way of the one meaningful 2021 New Year’s Resolution (TM) I have: to write more. Sinus infections sap my strength. They definitely get in the way of my creativity. And I wish there was a way to stop them, so I could be considerably healthier in the wintertime.
That said, so far, no Covid. (Thank the Deity.)
And of my friends who’ve come down with Covid, they’ve all recovered. (Again, I give thanks to whatever the Deity is.)
I have a jam-packed January planned, too, editing-wise. At least five books are planned by my various author-clients. And I want to work on all five. So I’ll figure it out, and shoehorn some writing in there now and again, too. (Just as soon as this sinus infection leaves me be, that is.)
Years ago, I read a short story by Rosemary Edghill in her excellent anthology PAYING THE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN. In that story, one woman more or less confronts her fate. She either writes, or edits. If she writes, she does little to no editing; if she edits, she “confidently works on a novel she has no intention of finishing.”
This does come to mind, often, with my editing schedule as it stands.
However, there has to be a way to do both. Ms. Edghill herself has done both for most of her career, and done it brilliantly. So I just have to find my own way toward the same end…
Of course, Covid did change everything in 2020. And not just my writing to editing time-ratio.
For example, the Racine Concert Band, which I play in and have for years, could not perform any concerts for obvious reasons. And we’re not sure what will happen to the upcoming year, as it all depends on how well the vaccine rollouts go, much less how well they’re tolerated. (I think I can say this without breaking any confidences, as it’s all common sense.)
I haven’t managed to practice very much or very often since mid-2020. My energy had to be kept for things I absolutely needed to do for much of the year. Anything else — even things that give me heart’s ease from pain — was put on the back burner.
Did I want to do this? Of course not. But I’m an adult. Adults figure stuff out, as best they can, and try not to get too frustrated about things that do not go their way.
Writing-wise, I’m still battling two demons, which are:
- How to turn off “Editor Voice” long enough to get a first draft (so I can manipulate things as needed later), and
- The thought that none of my writing will ever matter to anyone, so what’s the point? (That last is an existential issue.)
The first is a technical thing. And since my friends who are good editors have found a way to do this, I should eventually be able to find my own way through that thicket, too. And as far as the second thing goes, it’s a matter of telling myself it’s OK if no one cares about my writing but me and a few of my friends.
Plus, there’s a strategy I can use to try to get my next series out there, and that’s putting out at least two books in the same series in the same year. That builds anticipation and excitement, or at least can do the same…plus, writing short stories in that milieu to get your name recognized by readers can’t hurt anything, either.
For that matter, I have a good friend who sells a ton more than I do who’s told me for the last three years he wants to write a book with me. The reason I haven’t done it yet is because he writes over ten full-length novels a year, and my writing time has been limited to maybe 35K in 2020 and 60K in 2019 (all projects). I don’t want to slow him down, in short, and I can’t figure out how to make our writing time issues palatable to him. (Unless he looks at it as a side project for him, with it being a main project for me. Perhaps that’s the way?)
Anyway, my hope is that 2021 brings joy, peace, happiness, creativity, and all good things to you and yours.
What are you hoping to accomplish in 2021? Leave me a note in the comments!
Who Edits the Editor?
As I wanted to talk about editing today — especially since I’ve been doing a great deal of it over the past few weeks (thus almost no blogs) — I figured a catchy title might lure you in. (Did it work?)
Anyway, the question of “who edits for you, Barb?” has come up among my devoted readership. And as the answer is complicated**, I thought I could maybe make a blog out of this, remind you all I’m still alive and kicking, and help give you some idea of what I go through when I talk with my editor(s).
I am fortunate to have two very good mentors. Both are excellent editors in their own right. They are so good, that when I feel overloaded, I tell people to please check with them. (As they are both in high demand themselves, I am not going to name them. But trust me: they exist, and they’re damned good.)
Now, because I haven’t had anything ready to go for over a year, I mostly have just talked with my mentors over this when they have been able to come up for air. I trust them, I trust their judgment, and I believe them when they say something needs to be cut, something needs to be added, and/or something needs to be changed.
Because I can speak frankly with them, I try to offer the same level of frankness to my editorial clients. I want those who deal with me to know they can trust me, and my judgment, and be able to bounce ideas off me if they’re in distress…or even if they aren’t, and just want to chat about stories with someone they know who “gets it.”
But frankness does not necessarily equal bluntness. (Trust me, though; I can be quite blunt, when need be.) It does mean I try to give praise as well as criticism, and I hope my critiques are constructive rather than destructive. And it also means that I do my best to let my clients know I understand their stories, and what they’re going for; if I didn’t, how could I possibly do any good for them?
My view, as an editor, is to help my clients refine and improve their own work. I want them to sound like the very best versions of their writing style, in order to bring out all the specialness and sense of wonder they have in their own creation, while polishing up the various rough edges as much as I can without taking the freshness/uniqueness of their viewpoints out.
And what I look for in an editor, and have been privileged to find it with two wonderful editors who happen to be my friends, boils down to this:
- How well do they communicate?
- How well do they understand what I’m doing?
- How can they best help me help myself?
Ultimately, it all comes down to trust. Without trust, there is no communication; without trust, there is no understanding; without trust, there is no willingness to work together to find better solutions.
So I urge you, when looking for an editor, to find someone you can trust who has the skills you need in order to help you polish your work to its utmost.
And if you, like me, manage to find a good friend in your editor(s), so much the better.
———
**As I said, the answer is a bit complicated. I, myself, can look at something if I’ve had some time in between me writing it and me going to edit it and get the ball rolling. But unless time is pressing and my editor-friends are unavailable, I am going to ask one or both of them to help me every single time. Because I’m not stupid; I know I tend to see what I think is there, rather than what actually is.
And I do this for the same reason everyone else does. I have it set in my head that I wrote X, which means I’ll only see X. But I might actually have Y, Z, AA, BB, CC, DD, or something totally incomprehensible…which is why I, too, need editing. (You expected me to say anything else?)
Growing Pains
I bet you, like me, thought that once you became an adult, you’d be done with growing pains.
Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. Because things continue to happen, regardless of your age and experience, that broaden you — or don’t — and you can’t help but feel pain during these experiences.
You may be wondering why I’m writing this. I will admit that I am frustrated, upset, worried, have been sick for most of the past week, and am tired of 2020. But that’s not all of it…that’s just a part.
Mostly, I am wondering if there will be a day where I can hug my family members again. Or a day where I can greet a good friend with a hug or even a kiss (on the cheek).
Because one of my best friends came up with Covid-19, I now can’t visit her even though she’s successfully — as far as I can tell — gone through the 14-day quarantine. The fact is, I am around both of my parents daily. They feel the risk is now too great to see her, and if I picked her, I would not only have to move out of my home (as I share it with family), I’d not be able to see my family at all.
Such are the problems of 2020.
In addition, the guy I like lives in a different country. I don’t have any idea if I am going to be able to visit him anytime soon. This has put a strain on our developing relationship, and makes me wonder if we have it in us for the long haul.
And while yes, there are still good things going on in the world despite the pandemic, it’s all these frustrating things that are on my mind.
As my counselor put it a while ago, “It’s social distancing. It’s not supposed to be social isolation.”
Sometimes I wonder how well I’m doing with that, that’s all.
Anyway, I hope you all are staying safe, healthy, and sane…and are reading some great books. (I hope to talk about one such book soon, Leo Champion’s HUNTRESS OF THE STREETS. But that’s for another day.) Let me know how you’re doing in the comments…please?
Sunday Musings: Self-improvement, One Day at a Time…
Folks, I keep having one thought running through my head. And as it’s Sunday, it’s time to talk about it.
Too many of us coast through life. Maybe we take the easy way out too much. Maybe we don’t look hard at ourselves, and our motivations. And maybe–just maybe–we are the poorer for doing that.
(You know I think so, or I’d not be writing this blog. But I digress.)
We must learn how to work hard on ourselves, every day, and to become the best version of ourselves.
For example, if you are a great bricklayer, that means working hard every day to lay your bricks, maybe finding faster or easier ways to do it, or perhaps better materials with which to do it. The one thing you don’t do is to rest on your laurels, because once you say, “This is the best I can possibly be, and I can’t lay any bricks better than I’m already laying them,” that’s when your progress as a human being comes to a screeching halt.
I can hear some of you now, though, asking this question. “Barb, what the Hell are you talking about? I don’t lay bricks, so why should I care about the bricklayer?”
(It’s a metaphor. But again, I digress.)
See, the bricklayer in this example is doing their best to improve every day, and improving their art (of bricklaying, in this case) matters. It gives a shine to everything else they do all day. It gives them a sense of purpose, a sense of satisfaction, of a job well done. And all of that matters, because it all helps them to learn more, be more, and grow more as a human being.
But that’s not really what you asked, is it? What you asked was, “I’m not them, so why in the Hell should I care?” And to that, I have two reasons, one transactional–that is, do it because it will help you–and one that’s not.
The transactional reason is as follows: While you may not know the bricklayer, he may know you. And if you are rude or uncaring to him, or his family, or his friends, that will ultimately hurt your reputation and standing in the community.
But I prefer to use the non-transactional one, which goes like this: “Love one another, as I have loved you.” (Jesus said that, and it’s the best reason to do things that I know.)
In short, we are all worthy of care. Because we are all doing our best to learn, grow, change, improve ourselves, and/or survive while doing all of the aforementioned every single blessed day.
As it’s Sunday, I would like to ask you all to do just one thing today. It’s a hard thing, sometimes. But it’s a needed thing, too.
Be kind to each other, even when you’d rather not.
What did you think of this blog? Tell me about it in the comments! (I like to know someone’s reading, as otherwise I feel like I’m shouting into the big, dark Void.)
Sunday Musings: One Step at a Time…
Well, it’s Sunday again, so I figured I’d better write something. Here we go…
Lately, I’ve been struggling with a number of issues. The world at large seems stifling…the fact that Covid-19 rages on, and that “real life” remains so constrained, definitely does not help.
A week or so ago, my father told me, “So, what’s the big deal? Your life hasn’t changed that much since the pandemic.” His view was that I mostly do everything I’ve always done, except for wearing a mask while I do it.
Maybe that’s true. But it doesn’t feel that way.
As a writer, I observe things more keenly than most. And what I’ve observed is that societally speaking, we seem to be in a free fall. We’re tired, we’re frustrated, we’re angry, we’re definitely not happy…and the few who usually try to find bright spots mostly seem to be muzzling themselves. (Except maybe for posting various cat and dog pictures; they’re nice, but don’t make up for everything else.)
I know I usually try to concentrate on something positive, or uplifting, or at least interesting. And the past few months, I’ve been in a rut of my own that has made it hard for me to do any of that.
Why? Well, I think part of it is because 2020 has been so difficult. Everything I’d wanted to accomplish has been slowed significantly. And that’s extremely vexing.
One of my writer-friends sent me an essay that I wish I could find right now. The essay pointed out that sometimes, rage is your friend. It may stop you from writing in the short-term, but providing you do not give up, the rage can give you enough energy to keep going until you can write again.
But in case rage doesn’t do it for you, consider it from a different angle.
A book I read years ago called THE QUOTIDIAN MYSTERIES discusses just how these fallow periods in our lives can lead to greater creativity in the end. We seem to need these empty spaces with regards to our creativity for some reason, just as fields need to be left fallow every so often.
In other words, we have to trust the process.
And speaking solely for myself, I have to believe that this fallow season will come to an end, and my creativity will reassert itself as soon as it possibly can. And providing I stick it out, the words — and the stories — will come back full-force just as soon as they possibly can.
What are you doing during the pandemic to best utilize your creativity? Or at least keep yourself from running around, screaming? Tell me about it in the comments!
