I finished a story

This past week has been difficult, and I should have seen it coming, but it came from a direction I habitually ignore - the weather.

I don't usually check the weather, because most of the time it doesn't matter or change much. It rains, or it doesn't. It's chilly, or slightly warmer than normal. Either way, it rarely affects my day, and when something like a snowstorm is coming, I have Meg to let me know to watch out. She is a weather watcher, and is very concerned about the daily developments, so I know if something big is going to happen soon, I'll hear about it. What I forget, though, is what truly cold weather does to me. 

Psoriasis and temperatures below freezing don't mix. Combined with blown hot air that we use for heat in the car, my job, and here at home, and I get very tight, dry skin that exacerbates my psoriasis to the point that my skin tears every time I move. Yes, tears, as in rips. We aren't talking bloody wounds, thank god, but we are talking about taking the top layer of skin that has settled into psoriatic flaking and literally ripping it apart. It hurts like a son of a bitch! 

Then, when I shower, the salt from my skin washes into a million micro cuts, which is exactly what it sounds like - pouring salt into a wound. But the shower is necessary so I can moisturize, which is a whole new round of excruciating pain, which last for about twenty minutes after I apply the moisturizer.. At that point I become human again, and can resume regular activity with only mild constant discomfort. 

I am, however, exhausted from the pain, and at that point all I want to do is relax and sleep.

Now, you may recall that I signed up for a short story competition, deadline yesterday. Well, I'm a pretty good procrastinator normally, and was planning around that character trait. I had reserved Thursday and Friday night to actually sit down and write the story. I had the story almost fully realized in my brain, which is nice, and each day waking up brought me new insight into what I had planned. Also nice.

Those two nights were entirely taken up by pain. Not nice.

Now, I could have pushed through, sat my butt down and written the damn thing, but it's very hard to force yourself to creativity under normal circumstances. I didn't even try under those. So it came down to Saturday afternoon, when I had a seven hour window between getting home from work and our Saturday night D&D game, run by the friend who introduced me to the short story competition in the first place. 

The story was capped at 2500 words, which is normally a problem for me, as I tend to write long and then have to cut down a lot to make word limits, but I thought I had  pretty good story for the scope I was aiming for. So I woke up Saturday and went to work, knowing I had plenty of time that afternoon, that the whole story would take me 3-4 hours to write.

Man, don't tell my brain it has extra time.

I got out of work a little late, got home, fed the puppy, and decided to take a nap on the couch. I woke up when Meg got home, around 2:30, and was groggy as all get out. One little asshole part of my brain was like, 'Man, no way you're gonna get this done, and it's not gonna come out the way you want anyway, so play a video game." 

I told that guy to go fuck himself, asked Meg to make me a cup of tea (it tastes better when she makes it. Yes, I know it's boiled water and a tea bag. Trust me, it tastes better.), and sat my butt down in the writing chair to get to work. I put on the local classic rock station, Q104.3, on iHeartRadio, and slipped my headphones on with the volume cranked, and started typing.

After about ninety minutes I had reached the 1500 word mark and knew I was going long. I took a break and walked around, and then I made another mistake. I asked Meg if I could read her what I had so far. Now, I was enjoying writing the story, and part of me knew that it wasn't up her alley in a big way, but I still had that little voice in my head that wanted encouragement, an I gave into it. She even told me no, keep writing, but I more or less insisted. 

Well, I enjoyed reading it to her, and it actually helped me see a couple of things clearly. That turned out to be a good thing. What sucked was when I turned around and saw her face. I mean, about 2/3rds of the way through she was playing with the dogs, so I knew I'd already lost her interest, but the look on her face at the end was crushing. Even though I knew before I started that she wouldn't like it, a part of me hoped she would. I was wrong. 

I walked to the kitchen as she stammered for words to explain. I said, "It's okay. Tell me." She said, "I like your voices." "Okay, but..." "Yeah, um, I guess it's....boring...." "Oh. Really?" "Yeah." "Huh. Okay. Thanks." 

So that sucked, but I kind of laughed it off. I was very into the story at that moment, and reading it out loud got me further into where I needed to be. I sat down and got back to work.

Two hours later, I finished. 

I had cycled back to the beginning a few times to make changes as the ending became clearer. It's a weird thing, but stories never come out on paper the way they originally appear in your head. Something happens during the writing process, and all the stuff in your head gets pushed aside as the story starts to tell itself. It's moments like that when I recall Stephen King describing writing as 'unearthing a fossil' that I really appreciate that image. You can't make this stuff up. It just comes to you, if you let it. 

That's why I don't like outlines. They force you to write to your original, made up, image. I believe that makes you less true to the idea, to the story your brain really wants to tell. An outline prevents you from getting out of your own way. It's also a barrier to the fun of writing, because the exploration of the idea and the realization of what's happening as you write, as it literally comes to you from apparently nowhere, is the fucking rush, man. It's where the good stuff is.

Of course, I had to go back and take about 200 words of the good stuff out to make the word count, but that's fine. 

So yeah, I wrote a story and submitted it to the contest. Now I wait. I think the judging takes place over the next two months, and the second round, should I be in the top 5 in my group, is in April. So I'll see what happens.

But yeah, fuck that. I'm not waiting. I woke up this morning with a couple of other ideas in my head competing for space, and I've been trying for two and a half months to get my groove back. So, I figure I'll write another short story today, and set some goals for February. I'll let you know how it goes before I hit the sack tonight.

Have a great Sunday. Thanks for reading. Comments welcome, as always.

See you tonight.

Trouble getting off the blocks and a writing contest entry

I haven't been able to get myself to sit down and start writing. That's nothing new, and the major problem that has plagued me for as long as I've wanted to write. I have a lack of discipline in general, an writing in particular, and I've never handled the stresses that life throws at all of us very well. My typical response to stressful input is to go find something fun to do, which usually results in me playing a video or board game, watching a movie, or finding someone to do one of those things with. 

Even reading has become a thing I have to be disciplined about. There are so many available options for entertainment that if I'm not paying attention, I can easily go a week or more without picking up a book or my kindle. Fortunately, with reading I've built a habit of doing it every night before bed, even if I'm dead tired. It is very rare that I skip reading for at least five or ten minutes before falling asleep, often with book in hand.

I have yet to build that habit with writing. I get on small streaks, like the one you saw late last year, and then something happens and I go into full shutdown mode. Part of it is definitely the stress that occurs and my habitual response of seeking comfort and fun. Writing, you see, is still in the "work" category in my brain, even though I enjoy doing it. It is not a default activity for stress relief, nor a routine daily activity. It falls by the wayside and low on my pleasure center's priority list as soon as the slightest disturbance in the force occurs.

This time it was the puppy in November, then the holidays, then the election, which stressed me more than I was aware of. I spent a lot of time paying attention to news and social media, not to mention energy, which is something I almost never do. Then it was work stress, and finally a job change. I think I mentioned it last blog, but I went back to my old job this week, just to get some stability back and alleviate some of the stress I was feeling. That's ironic, considering my old (and new) job was always one of my stressors, but sometimes you need a little time away to realize what you have and what you are missing.

The truth is, my biggest stress is not writing. I think about it every day, even when I'm so far away from it that it seems like I might never write again, and it bothers me. It hurts my soul.

I watched the Netflix movie, "Sylvie's Love," with Meg the other night, and there's a scene where they are talking about life and the choices we make. The boy in the story, Robert, describes how he made a decision after his mother died. He says, "It made me realize that life's too short to waste time on things you don't absolutely love." Sylvie responds, "But how do you know? If you love something absolutely, I mean?" Robert thinks for a moment, then answers, "I don't know. I guess when it's the only thing that matters."

That's a damn good answer, and the best way I've ever heard to describe how I feel about writing. It's the only thing that matters, and has been for a very long time.

I have to continue to eliminate distractions, the games and movies and comforts that I seek, and continue to drive towards a life of writing, reading, and loving what I do. This is not about people, or spending time with Meg, with friends an family. Those are important things that I will never eliminate. But I have to build a writing habit, have to make it a priority, and I need to put everything else away until I do. It's not easy. It's like taking a child's security blanket away. My brain tells me it doesn't want me to, that it hurts, that I'll have no way to cope with stress. But I will. It just won't be what I've always done. It will be what I've always wanted to do.

In an effort to actually move in the direction of writing and get unstuck, so to speak, I've signed up for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2021 on nycmidnight.com. It starts tonight at 11:59 p.m. Each participating writer is assigned a genre, subject, and character, and has eight days to write an original short story of up to 2500 words. Each group of writers (I don' know how many are in each group) will be judged, and the top five will be chosen to move on to round two, where they will write another, slightly shorter, story. There are a total of four rounds if you make it all the way through. I figure this is a good way to get myself moving with an actual assignment and deadline, not to mention a random three part writing prompt. 

I won't start at midnight. There's no way I'll be awake. I'll wake up tomorrow morning as normal, check my email to get my prompts, and go from there. At the latest, I'll start Sunday morning, after a full day of letting my brain play with the ideas.

That's a story in a week. The week after, contest or no, I'll write another. And so on. That's the plan. Now please excuse me while I get another cup of coffee and put away some more of these distracting toys.

See you tomorrow.

. 

Sorry for the length today. That tends to happen when I need to work my way through something. Thanks for listening.

Sunday morning - deadlines and deliveries

I haven't done much of anything since my last blog several days ago, except work, prepare for another work transition, and think too damn much. The thinking thing is a definite curse, and one I have got to learn to overcome before I think myself to death. In thinking is a paralysis of action, and inaction is the surest way to stay exactly where you are.

Today is the deadline to complete Short Story #1. I wrote it on this big dry-erase calendar that I have on my desk that I bought shortly after we moved into the new house back in September. It's up there in bold black letters, along with future deadlines for Short Story #2, #3, and #4. It's got six big black "X" marks for days I haven't written, and one note last Tuesday that says "Blog #1," because that's when I wrote my last blog. Up top, next to the printed word, "This Month's Plan," I've written Heinlein's five rules. 

My dry erase desk calendar.

I knew the short story a week goal was going to be challenging, and I knew I'd probably procrastinate, but I didn't realize how quickly I'd go looking for something, anything else to do besides sit down and write. I mean, there are plenty of excuses to be had, plenty of reasons not to write, to say I've got too much going on to focus, to say that I just want to wait until the job transition back to my old job is complete, to say that I'm tired after work, or the dogs take too much time, or there are too many other little things that need to be addressed to sit down and write.

It's all bullshit. It's the same ole same. I'm just plain scared, and that fear is manifesting as worry, busy work, and downright laziness. The only way to be a writer, so to speak, is to write.

I reread a series Dean Wesley Smith wrote about Heinlein's rules, and one thing stuck out at me that I'd never really noticed before. He said that all that fear of failure (or success, or just doing the damn work) that keeps people from writing, that keeps me from writing, should be nothing compared to the public spectacle we make of ourselves to our friends and family and anyone else we tell about our writerly aspirations and then don't write. They know we are failing. We know we are failing. I know I am failing, and not because what I write isn't good, but because I don't write, and I don't finish what I write.

Heinlein's first two rules, right there. The cause of most failed writers. 

Fortunately, the one thing I know how to deal with is procrastination, particularly my own. I've mastered this shit, going all the way back to every high school homework assignment ever. I always got them done, and I'll get this story done today. And the next, and the one after that. And I'll submit them, or self-publish them, and I'll keep on writing. 

I've got to find the joy in this, the feeling I get when I am writing and it's just fun, a damn good time, the best time I know. All the anxiety comes before I write, or after I've written some and start thinking too much. It's never present in the midst of the writing. The solution, then, is to always be writing.

Thanks for humoring me. This blog is, at times, just a place for me to spill, to organize, and to rid myself of enough of the anxiety to get back to the work. It's a good place to remind myself what I'm trying to do, who I'm trying to be, and to get back at it. I apologize for that. 

But maybe, just maybe, when I get past all this pre-writer angsty bullshit I let myself wallow in, you'll be able to tell someone, "Oh, hey, are you reading the new Joe Cleary novel? I used to read his blog back before he had any idea what the fuck he was doing!"

See you tomorrow.

Oh, hi there! I'm back with a writing goal for 2021.

So, never get a puppy if you are trying to build a new habit.

Seriously.

On the other hand, if you want to introduce an immediate dose of stress, anxiety, and sleeplessness into your otherwise excellent life, get a puppy.

That's where I've been for the last two month. I adopted Midge, and she reminded me how much work and attention puppies require. My friend, Moose, called it, and he couldn't have been more right. Fortunately, puppies also bring a lot of joy and happiness to the home, and Midge has definitely given us plenty of smiles and laughs over the holiday season, to go along with a lot of cleaning up poop and pee. It's a fair trade, I guess, since the joy will continue and the indoor bathroom cleanup should eventually come to an end.

This is Midge and the babe the day we brought her home.

Meanwhile, I haven' written anything  since the last blog. Between the puppy and the fact that Uber slowed down dramatically during this pandemic stricken holiday season, I really haven't had the time, nor the mental energy, to get myself back to the keyboard. I also let some old habits creep in as forms of stress management, and here were are, two months gone by, two weeks into 2021, and I haven't even set a goal yet. Not a single one.

So here goes, the short and sweet writer goal for 2021. Ready?

- Write a short story every week and submit for publication.

That's really it. I plan on trying to get a new blog streak going, but the primary goal for 2021 is the short story goal. If that's going well, I may be a glutton and add on, but for now I'm keeping it simple. 52 stories in 50 weeks. Yeah, I'm going to make myself make up for the two weeks I did nothing so far this year.

I think this is a great way for me to learn how to be committed to writing and learn a ton about the process, from storytelling to submission to self-publication. I'll be doing my very best to get out of my own way, and the best way I know to do that is to follow Heinlein's Rules of Writing. For those who are unacquainted, those rules are as follows:

1. You must write.

2. You must finish what you write.

3. You must not edit except to editorial order.

4. You must put what you write on the market.

5. You must keep it on the market until it sells.

Now, there are a few markets for short storied out there still, though not nearly as many as there were ten or twenty years ago. Certainly not as many as there were in the mid to late twentieth century, when a short story writer could make a good living. But there are still some places that accept short fiction submissions. Still, not everything I write will find a market.

That's where self-publishing comes in. Once a career killer, self-publishing has become a legitimate way to build a writing career over the past decade, and is a viable place for short fiction to thrive. So, once a story has made the rounds of the appropriate markets, I'll be putting it up for sale myself on various websites. I'll also be looking to publish collections of stories that are generally the same genre.

One of the things I'm considering is publishing my own monthly magazine, which will include everything I write each month in a collected volume. I'm not ready to take that step just yet. Dean Wesley Smith, a long time fiction writer with hundreds of novels and stories to his credit, publishes his work in a monthly magazine called Smith's Monthly, and even with his writing nd publishing credentials, he has ha trouble keeping up. I'm going to keep that idea on the back burner until I've proven to myself that I can hack the monthly workload.

What I will do, at the end of the year, is compile any stories that I self publish into an annual collection, along with the covers I will have to do for them, and any accompanying blog posts that relate to the stories themselves, the writing of them, the marketing for them, or just some side notes. That's right, there will be a 2021 Cleary Annual Writing Collection, and I hope it will be the first of many.

That's all for now. I'm glad to be back at this keyboard. It's been bothering me, being away. The deadline for the first short story of 2021 is midnight on Sunday, so I have six days to get the year off to a slightly belated writing bang!

See you tomorrow.