(I've always thought the graphic above should be on a t-shirt. I'd buy five)
Little brings out the introspective side of me like warm weather.
Our dogs go outside frequently, for a variety of reasons, and this affords me more time to think. My thoughts lately turn to many things, not the least of which is my writing.
Writerly-thoughts come to the forefront of my mind more often than not. I ponder what I think of as a “come-back”, how best to do it, who do I want to write for in a shorter format, what publisher would I shop my newest novels to when I finally finish them, and so on.
I think about how uprooting my family has influenced my writing, my muse and how I look at life. I ponder the things I want to write about, how I attempt to construct my week so that I allow my writing time to grow, and how often that plan falls flat.
We all lead complex lives, and often we all feel as if we are the only ones with this much on our plates. Some of us can roll with demands on our time and some need to guard our writing time like a dragon with a horde of gold. (Yes, I have just seen The Desolation of Smaug, why do you ask?)
One aspect of my life includes caring for aging parents who like to think they do a lot around the house, but most of the time they are calling me up from the basement to do something for them. I don’t mean this as a complaint, I knew this was coming when I moved my little family back up north. I use this to illustrate how our lives can cut into writing time. I can be hip-deep in a love scene when a sudden shout from the floor above demands my immediate attention. Never mind questing lips and thrusting hips, now I’m needed to change a bed, or uncover an air conditioner, hang a new light, or some other task that could have been mentioned before I sat down.
My parents know I’m a writer. They know I’ve written a novel that’s been out of print for years. They’re usually proud of the series of children’s short fiction I’ve written. They know I’ve written a couple of articles published in vague magazines no one has heard of. They’ve enjoyed the short stories I’ve written in the past two years. They don’t understand why I write fan fiction, and then obsess over it. They’ve even bragged about my writing to their acquaintances. But they never hesitate to interrupt my writing time.
I let them have their own way for a while before I have to slam limits down. I’m pretty sure other writers have issues similar to this.
But how do we writers without a time of our own, and a separate place to write outside our homes, carve out that which is necessary to our creative genius?
Ray Bradbury and Stephen King, and even J.K Rowling have all said that writers must be able to focus on their inner voices, write every day or until our eyes bleed. Easier said than done, I say.
I think about all of these things while I stand in the sun, waiting for my ‘old man dog’ to find just the right spot too relieve himself. I continue to chew over my thoughts while my ‘toddler dog’ tries to stalk the rabbits in the yard.
I have yet to find the answers.
In the meantime, the longest winter inspires me to write about adventurers stranded in blizzards. The local newspaper spawns outline notes about a woman and her dog stuck on a train without fuel in the middle of the dark woods miles from any community. While I search for answers, I write about a hunter who saves a white moose from hypothermia.
I still don’t have the answers I seek, but I think I’m making my writerly-comeback.
One short story, one outline, one blog-entry at a time.
