Woah, gang, I am making progress.
Anyone else struggle with creating art when they are working full-time? The drive is there, but the energy is lacking.
I think I will try to get some flash fiction posted this weekend. Take a break from the novel.
The words are coming easily again. I have written 2,000+ words in just a few hours this week.
Brains are weird. Creativity is weird.
I feel like there are two main types of blocks when it comes to my writing: Time & Juice.
There are days when I have ideas! Juice! Creativity is flowing! I want to write! I know what I want to say, and words come pouring out onto the page. Then Time steps in; oh right, I have a full-time job. I have a home to maintain, cats to feed.
Responsibilities… * shiver *
Blast. That’s okay, it isn’t like the ideas will go away, the words will still be there after work, or tomorrow!
Most days I am tired after work; physically, emotionally and mentally. I have a semi-stressful job that involves a lot of work on a computer. By the time I get home I tend to be zoned out and drained, and the last thing I want to do is try to ramp up the energy and get some writing done.
Sometimes the words aren’t there. A mere 24 hours after I was revved up on a creativity high, juices are flowing and I don’t have the time to get that energy to paper… oh, my ideas have dried up. I have a few hours to work on my story. I know the plot, the characters, the scene… but the style isn’t there. Or I don’t have the desire to write. Poof. Gone.
Time & Juice. Sometimes (a lot of the time) they don’t align, and I am stuck staring at a blank page.
It can be frustrating, I try to fill my juice-less time with an influx of media.
Pinterest is my go-to; am very motivated by imagery, and love putting together boards that represent my stories, moods or scene styling that I can see in my head.
Instagram is fun, more great images and connection to other creators out there, and Twitter is a great place to follow other writers!
Help me out, friends. What motivates you? What keeps you writing when the words are hard to come by, or the words you are putting down just kind of… suck? What else can I do to get that extra push?
While I wait for my Time & Juice to cooperate, you can find me here:
Pinterest: AA Czostedt.
I am attempting to write a novel.
I am writing a novel.
I am writing.
It is hard to sit down every day and write. I have a full-time job, a relationship, two demanding cats, a “social life” (videogames)… I get tired. I don’t want to write when I get home, or on the weekends. I have chores, I want to relax, etc etc excuses etc excuses.
I am still writing. I am focusing on word count. A dear friend has suggested that I update my WordPress with my progress, since I am no longer writing short stories regularly.
Consider yourself updated.
Writer Friends: How are you staying motivated? Reader friends: Thank you for reading!
“Let’s get down to it. Do you use dark magic?”
“Well, yes, I do use dark magic…” she shifted in her seat. “Oh, don’t make that face. Dark magic isn’t evil, it isn’t bad. It’s just… it’s just, dark!”
I tapped my pen on my notepad, leaned closer. “What is it, then? There are so many warnings, so much stigma regarding dark magic. Can you explain to me why you think you can use it, where others cannot?”
“What do you think of, when you think of darkness? What comes to mind?” She was smiling now, her teeth looked sharp.
I thought for a moment. “Nighttime. Evil. Creatures of the night, danger…” I trailed off, unsure if I should continue.
She smiled again, this time with a hint of sadness. “There is this idea that things that are dark are bad. The night is dangerous, unpredictable, it hides things. That the light is good, safe, we can see everything. But that isn’t quite true, is it?”
She began to pace around the room, gesturing as she spoke. “The light can blind us just as much as the dark. Think of the good that comes with the absence of light. You can see the stars. The night creatures spend their lives without light; does that make them evil? Dark magic is a velvet cloak that embraces it’s wearer. It is unpredictable by nature, wild, powerful. There is freedom in the darkness. I use it, because it feels natural.”
I rummaged through my notes. “Oh! Oh… I meant… black magic. Do you use black magic?”
“Oh! No, black magic is evil. No one should use black magic, bad stuff.”
James stared out the window as the instructor lectured animatedly at the whiteboard. He let his hand drift over the clean white paper, his pen lazily floating across the page. He purposefully kept his eyes away from the notebook, giving his hand free rein.
He usually came up with some interesting scribbles; someday, he knew that he would turn his eyes to the desk and see a masterpiece. He just knew it. He let another few seconds go by, the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed painfully slow. He pulled back his hand, breathless, and turned his face to the page…
“James. What did I just say?” The professor stared at him expectantly, toe tapping the linoleum, scowling at the wide-eyed look of incomprehension from James. “Quit doodling and pay attention!”
“Sorry, man.” James scowled with ferocity equal to that of the professor, glaring at the mass of incomprehensible scribbles in his notebook. “Just spacing out.” He tore off the top sheet of paper and crumpled it loudly. James returned his gaze to the window.
* * * * *
He jerked awake suddenly, elbows sliding off the desk. Had he fallen asleep? James darted a few surreptitious glances at his instructor and classmates; no one seemed to have noticed. Relaxing his tense shoulders with a sigh, his eyes dropped to his notebook, expecting to see the usual mess of indecipherable scribbles.
Instead, the stark image of a tree was scrawled across the page. The roots twisted in a tangled mass, the grim branches stretched alarmingly to the edges of the page. He blinked fiercely, screwing his eyes shut so tightly that they watered. He looked again. Just scribbles… the usual swirls and jagged slashes of an aimless, wandering pen. He was sweating, but a chill shivered through him.
A tree. James shook his head. My mind is playing tricks on me, and for a split second I thought that I saw a tree. He looked at the page again; it hadn’t changed. It was nothing, just a mess of ink scrawled across the page.
But if it was nothing, why wouldn’t his hands stop shaking?
The second time I saw the mermaid, she was singing.
Now, when most people think of a singing mermaid, they think of the red-haired songstress with a penchant for hoarding, bewitching siren songs, etc.
This was more like… well, imagine an old cat yowling for dinner. Scratchy, off-key and off-putting.
She was in the water this time, her back to me, and she was splashing while squawking a familiar tune.
“Are… are you singing Crocodile Rock?” I asked from the shore.
She gasped and submerged, then resurfaced about twenty feet away, scowling.
“Are you following me?” she hissed, her sea green eyes seemed to glow from the sun reflecting off of the water.
I pointed down the beach. “I am living in one of the beach houses for the summer, I just walk the beach a lot.”
“Whatever. Get a life.”
She was gone with a flick of her strong tail, leaving a wake of bubbles and Elton John stuck in my head.