March Radness - Day 19

So, I didn’t write yesterday.  It wasn’t like I ran out of time (I sat at the computer after two am, staring at a blank screen), it wasn’t like I forgot (it occurred to me time and time again throughout the night that I still hadn’t written), and it wasn’t like I have any excuse (yeah, I’m still in pain in my ribs for some reason, and seasonal allergies have started up, so I’ve sneezed—excruciatingly—several times today and yesterday). 

I simply chose not to do it. 

I was not inspired.  There was nothing I wanted to write.  And I didn’t do it.

So, where does that put us?  Have I failed?  Am I a failure?  Should I stop now and say that all is lost?  Or should I simply shrug and write twice as much today?

I was reading about Stephen King in the 1980s yesterday (it’s where I got the quote in Saturday’s post) and how insanely productive he was during that decade (one year, he put out five books . . . FIVE).  But he was big into drugs and alcohol at that time, and he felt like the cocaine and booze helped fuel him creatively, giving him a drive to work more and more, even if he was aware they were vices to keep secret.  And when, at the end of the decade, he finally kicked those habits, and stopped drugging and drinking . . . what he was most afraid of* came true: he couldn’t write anymore.

He moped around and felt uninspired, and couldn’t quite give a damn about the work, and pretty much decided he was going to have to retire.

Well, I wasn’t that bad yesterday (or today), but I don’t want to write.  I have nothing burning inside of me, itching to break free onto the page, as I have a time or two in the past. **

I’m now sitting down in the library (the homeless guy has not shown up yet . . . but he will), and I have to decide if I’m going to be a Writer (capital W) or just a mere blogger, podcaster, and pervert.

I don’t have the answer yet (and it’s taken me 797 words to say this).

Am I broken?

Rish

*Indeed, it seems he was more afraid he wouldn’t be able to write than that he would lose his family for the binge drinking and gazillion dollar coke habit.  Which is interesting.

**For example, in the summer of 2016, I got this idea for a sequel to “Like A Good Neighbor,” wherein Lara Demming and Old Widow Holcomb’s story continues.  I was driving up to the family cabin, and the question came to me: What happens after Lara’s spell on the witch no longer works?  Does the witch just kill her?  Does she refuse to teach the girl more? 
And the answer that came was, No, she doesn’t kill her.  And no, she doesn’t stop the teachings. 
But why?  What possible reason could there be for continuing?  And then I thought, Maybe she doesn’t know herself.  Maybe she enjoys being a teacher.  Maybe she likes the neighbor girl.  Maybe she continues the training because she’s missed having a family . . . and keeps her ability to stop at any time in her back pocket, for when she might need it. 
On that summer day, I was so excited to tell this story, and I raced to the cabin, where I would (for the first time) have no one around and almost nothing to distract me as I worked my own brand of witchcraft. 
I delighted in writing scenes where the girl is forcing Holcomb to teach her something, but we know that the spell is broken, and Holcomb is not under her control, even if Lara doesn’t know it.  I wrote that, and dropped clues that Lara is slow to pick up on (you may have noticed that every child in my writing, unless they are villains, are average or below average in intelligence . . . and I don’t give a melting diarrhea popsicle if folks have a problem with that), and then got the idea for where the story could go. 
The fun of the LatW stories is that Holcomb is evil.  She may have her regrets from her past, she may have feelings for the cute little neighbor girl, but she’s still a creature of the night.  Abigail Hilton had put in my head that, if Holcomb had once given up her child for the first Pendant of Espindola, then what did she have to give up for the next one?  And the answer came to me (or perhaps Abbie originally put it out there): well, Lara, of course.
So, I knew where the story was headed.  And the point I’m trying to make is (beyond just not wanting to write and preferring to blog instead) that I felt afire with creativity and inspiration, and was happy to be a writer, and happy to be alive.
And I never finished that story.  I never got past the point where Lara is beginning to suspect, so she commands Holcomb to do something ridiculous, and Holcomb does it to throw her off the scent (which, obviously, was fun to write).  But I could finish it.
I should finish it.


Okay, if you’re still reading this, then I guess madness takes its toll.  So listen, not for very much longer, as I reveal that, as soon as I typed the little Lara and the Witch bit above, I opened up a new document and started typing a scene that would happen after the falling out between Lara and Holcomb.  I didn’t know where I was going with it, but it was fun, and it counts as writing.

And I guess I'm back in business, boys.  And girls.

Words Today: 1,517
Words Total: 14,317