Okay, last week’s blog was a bust. No video connection. That teaches me to have a backup plan. Of course that doesn’t mean I ever will. I’m a writer, dangit! Doesn’t that mean I’m artistically disorganized?
For me it does. Or just plain, ordinary disorganized. I’m working on the sequel to what is going to be my first self-published novel (I must think of a better title than Magic’s Guardian before I have the cover designed and buy the PowerPoint converter so I can post ads on Youtube, etc.). It is currently in two notebooks (neither filled), a journal, another journal, several sets of loose pages, and assorted scrap paper. It is slowly making its way into the computer, but it’s in so many pieces right now the poor thing must be in pain.
I try to organize sometimes. The top shelf of my computer desk is still neatly arranged, writing and reference books interspaced with knickknacks, including Gizmo from Gremlins, a couple Jack Sparrows, Toad from the X-Men, a wizard (nope not THAT wizard, he’s on a different shelf), an angel, a Big Boy, and many, many frogs. The rest of it . . . not so much. Pens, paper, more knickknacks not so neatly interspaced, notepads, and thumb drives all scattered about in a system only I can understand. It’s kinda like the way I write. And I wonder if that’s because I just can’t keep everything in my head.
A good example of what I mean happened last night. As I was heading for bed (when else? Really?) I got so many different ideas for the story they almost started falling out of my brain. All I could do was grab the first blank paper at hand and start to scribble half-legible notes. (Half legible to me, that is. Anyone else would probably think I was writing in tongues. I’ve been told I have serial killer handwriting. Bwa ha ha.) I also keep a notebook beside my bed, in case of middle-of-the-night inspiration. I’ve lost too many ideas by not having something on hand, then falling back to sleep and waking up only remembering that I thought of something brilliant.
I suppose it’s the hazards of imagination. Anything can set it off . . . a dream, a song, a line from a TV show or movie, a picture. It’s sometimes frustrating. I have a dozen unfinished novels sitting around just because I can only work on so many at a time. At the same time I love it. I only have to live in the real world if I want to. And who wants to?
All of which seem to be common experiences for fiction writers. I’ve read about or heard of similar stories all over, from newbie writers as well as the old salts with a dozen publishing contracts. Any of you agree?
And I wouldn’t want to be any other way.