I'm at the writers conference, and darned if it hasn't been mostly stuff I've heard before (and before that, and before that), but perhaps its the ritual that's important. Perhaps it's being around other like-minded folks, with similar priorities and desires and struggles, and that's what's beneficial. Does it remind you of going to church in any way? Well, it's supposed to.
2/17
Words Written: 857
Total Words: 15,818
So, I got very little sleep last night. I still have to make money, even if I'm in a writers conference all day, so I didn't get to sleep until very late (around three), and when I set my alarm last night, I fully expected to turn it off and go back to bed, sleeping through the first couple of panels. But when it went off, I remembered thinking I ought to go to them (or I wouldn't have set the alarm in the first place), so I just got up and went.
It did catch up to me around two pm, though, when I started being unable to focus on what the panelists were saying, and started to wonder if I shouldn't just duck out for a little while and get some soda and or crack into me, since I'm not really paying attention. But I was recording the panels for Biggie, so I hung in there, knowing I could always listen to them later.
Now, though, it's hours later, and I can barely keep my head up. Gonna call it a night, I guess.
At one of the panels was a guy who, upon losing a bet with the Devil, wrote a short story (a "flash" story) every day in 2016. When he was done, his fingers had been worn down to the nubs, his buttocks were completely flat, and he had THREE short story collections filled with them to sell at conventions. That kind of inspired me, but not enough to do anything about it.
2/18
Words Written: 348
Total Words: 16,166
Seems today might have been the lightest day so far this month. But I was in the convention from morning till night, had my niece with me, and then got together with Big Ank to go to dinner after. And then I was pretty darn sleepy when I made it home, but having been encouraged by stuff I heard on panels, decided to see if I couldn't punch up the most important scene in a 2011 story I was going to publish, which would piss off good ole Dean Wesley Smith, but bad ole Rish Benjamin Outfield likes it just fine . . . even if the voice of the narrator no longer matches during that scene. Whoops.
Having finished that novella, I immediately started work on a short story that I came up with in 2010 or so on one of my patented "Come Up With A Story Idea On The Fly That's Never Going To Go Anywhere" activities I sometimes do while driving. I intended to write it all in one sitting, but see-sawed between panels that totally grabbed my attention and boring ones I practically slept through. Ah well, maybe tomorrow.
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