Piss and Moan Wednesday

Some days, I like to pretend that I’m a real big-girl writer.

No, I’ve never had anything published, and I’m approximately 100 pages into a novel, with vast work yet to be done.

But, I sit in front of a computer, I put words into it. 

I make notes, list after list after list. 

I do research. 

I’ve made actual family trees for my characters. 

I’ve drawn diagrams of houses and buildings.

And… I drink, I obsess, and I’m obviously neurotic… so I’m a real writer. 

Right???

I’ve recently acquired a couple of new friends, writers themselves. I think that aside from having someone to bounce work/ideas off of, it will be good to share frustrations with someone who could possibly understand.

I can lament “I wish I could finish this fucking novel”.

Normal people would say “Well, just finish it then.”

Writers would say “Here, have a shot of bourbon.”

Writers are simultaneously horrible influences and totally awesome.

I want… no I NEED encouragement… I know, that’s pathetic… but that’s how I roll.  Since B died, I’ve felt lost as a writer.  I wrote the short story about a very personal experience and then decided to start something entirely new.  I had no idea where the story was going, unlike the novel, I just went with it.

After about 10 pages I had an epiphany.  The protagonist was the same as in my novel, just at a different stage in her life.

My editor friend says this is to be expected, since both characters are based loosely on myself….

Well, fuck.

Now, I’m back at work on the novel.

I’ve gotten some really great feedback on it, with the few people I’ve shared it with.  I think I’m on the right track…

If I just didn’t have to fucking work, I could really make something happen.

Yea, right.

But… in the span of a few days, I’ve been called a “sophisticated writer” (clearly this person doesn’t know me) and an “artsy chick”.

I dig it.  Even if I’m not quite sure it fits.  I can’t say that it’s appropriate to describe me as “sophisticated” but, hey, I’ll take it.

I once went to a couple of meetings of a local writers group, with stars in my eyes.

B told me that I’d hate it.

“No” I thought “They’ll be cool like me.”

B was right.

If you write about faeries, that’s cool, that’s your thing, go on with your bad self…

BUT…

DO NOT SUGGEST THAT I CHANGE MY CHARACTERS.

These “writers” would pick apart a few pages of someone’s work a week.  Theoretically this sounds like a great idea, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.

That is not what was happening.

It was mostly one dude postulating and the librarian trying to make everyone feel comfortable.  I was totally insulted for the other writers when people were making suggestions to change the actual characters.  The whole story is based on the motherfucking character, if you change it; it’s not the same story.  If you want to write a story about another character, write it yourself.

Oh, yea, and kiss my ass.

So that’s the last and only formal “writers group” that I’ve participated in.  I still believe that a writers group could work, as long as the gas bags are weeded out.  And no, I don’t mean a group to go to the bar and get hammered with… I mean, not until after group is over.

I read over the 1941 words I wrote while I was high on Nyquil.

It’s not awful, it needs some work, but I did get some ideas down that I had notes on.

Instead of the quote “Write Drunk; Edit Sober”

I like “Write High; Let Someone Else Edit”

So… while I’m in sunny Florida, I plan to WRITE!

Pound some of this shit out!!

Hold me to it folks!!