The Dark Place of Writing.

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In the last 72 hours, I have found how the clouds can move over once again. Noticed it when editing a story that a good gent critiqued.  Good honest crit.

As I write this the honey colored dog, Honey, is head-butting my arm.  She’s not the strongest dog in the world, but she has a forklift for a head. She does pretty well on tipping me over.

Back to the here and now, I have not been writing which annoys me. Instead I’m overheated  (that time of year anyway) during the day and stripping paint of the door that Hershey the dog from abject panic of firecrackers in the area and no humans home to calm her.  Now I am on a mission to strip this door of at least six layers of paint, perhaps as much as fifty-years worth of paint. So care must be made to lock the paint in a plastic bag and reduce dust to zero.

This means no electric sanding, and hand-sanding with fluid surfactants to entrap the dust- and all done outside.

But, it also means I am not writing. Not like I need. I like to have stories mapped out (if not written, I’m ahead in my head.)  days ahead of the cycle, and I know I am late in the day.  Most of the studies I read say I should post in the morning of the United States.

Blech, I don’t do that. Midnight? Yeah. Often.

Tonight at midnight? Hardly.  You get a journal entry only, no fiction.  I don’t have a muse to write with. The muses are in the showers cleaning off paint-crud and paint stripper.

I would paint it all again, but Mrs Dash wants it stained, and it appears to be nice wood underneath. At least one filler, it seems that someone moved the door knob from one side to the other.

And yet, I feel lost.  Is it the drug of writing?

I prowl the kitchen without reason, aimless wandering and looking to poach something.  Peanut butter and chocolate? Ugh..then I sit down to the keyboard… then jump up and run outside again to scrape paint off the door. Again.

I daydream out there. Need to launch an arrow or two

The imagination calls, to watch the hero save the day?

Does the heroine save him, only to find out he is gay and married to a wonderful man?

Does the hero watch his hearts love walk away? Superman watching Lois Lane marry someone who is better for her than he ever could be?

Heh, I missed all those in the last few days. The glory of creating. Or editing? That is fear.

I fear to make it worse. From exploding phones in the hands of bad guys to a steampunk journey to a romance that is as chaotic as they come.

But as Hemingway said, first drafts are all crap. (Well, paraphrased there.)

I will dig up another chapter, edit it a little, clean up some things and post it here, but is it truly writing?  It doesn’t feel like it.

Sometimes, I hear the laughter in my soul that is not there. The doubts. I am no writer, I am just… someone who thinks he is.

Who am I?

Odd question.

I am a writer, an author. I will make you cry or laugh.

I am Dash. Bradach Ard Ri.

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Sail into the harbor of my soul; tell me your heart

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