Blame the Houseguests?

In the past month or so, our house has been a bustling hive of out-of-town guests. From friends to family, Matt and I have been happy to welcome our peeps with open arms.

I have zero regrets about spending time with people I love but company always means one thing. Forced vacation for me.

Though, it doesn’t have anything to do with our guests. Our guests are great. If I want to come in the office and work, none of my family or friends are opposed to me doing that of course. They’re all grown-ass individuals who can certainly entertain themselves for however long I’m inspired.

It’s just, I’m just never inspired anymore.

I want to blame the visits, different energy floating around our house, lack of consistent quiet, or whatever other excuse is most convenient to apply as to why I’ve barely put more than two words on the page since I wrapped NaNoWriMo last November.

But applying false blame is a plotline better left in one of my books.

If I ever write one again.

Ugh. I swear. It’s like my characters are up there in my brain, rattling around and screaming at me to get their stories out but I just can’t seem to organize anything long enough to bring it to the end.

I don’t believe in writer’s block but I do believe in creative drought.

Thing is, I’m not entirely sure how to re-fill my pond of creativity. It’s out there in the sun, festering algae and slimy bits as hordes of little vampire mosquitoes sink their time sucking teeth into my brain.

Maybe it’s lack of sleep. I sure haven’t gotten enough recently. Maybe it’s panic about getting older body changes. Or maybe I’m just mentally worn out.

I hate…wait, no, that’s too weak a word…I abhor being unproductive. Feeling like I’m lazy. But I loathe putting in 150 million percent effort for zero return even more.

So I’m in this place right now, stuck between really wanting to just keep going because it’s not only what I do but who I am, and giving up entirely to go become a full-time virtual assistant with a real salary and someone to validate my existence.

Yeah, I’m not getting that office job. Even if I’m able to work in my own office in jammies. If I give up now just to go get a paycheck then I’d feel like a bigger sell-out than if I just keep at this grind and finally start selling some of my work to Hollywood.

The dream.

Goals, increasingly lofty or not, are my true motivation right now.

Because, I don’t know how long it’s been since I started dreaming of seeing my name in the credits of a movie somewhere, but I fully intend to make that dream a reality in the next couple years.

And I’m looking at you, Hallmark movie channels!

But, if I ever hope to get there I have to stop rambling on in blog posts and start getting serious about writing commercially viable books.

Guests, gone. House, quiet. Fingers, typing.

Let’s do this.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Lighten Up

I am deeming this the year of everything is right. Or, maybe, follow my gut, not my panic.

Either way, this year I’m trying to let go of a little bit of the frantic panic and worry I’ve let myself adopt over the way I spend my days.

When I looked back on my year last year (by essentially taking the entire month of December off from writing), I realized I wrote and released three books last year.

I mean, that’s fucking huge.

At times I still question how I found the motivation, dedication, to do that plus all the other shit that comes from living life and being a self-employed person: running the rest of my company (marketing, dinners, meetings, interviews, accounting, dispensing writing advice…), seeing family, friends, vacations, hockey games, eating, doing laundry, construction projects, testing makeup techniques…

The list goes on.

So, when I took stock and realized that, in addition to the books I did some, or a lot, of all that other stuff too, it finally hit me. I hate worrying but I work so much better under pressure. But, the thing is, the pressure doesn’t come from the outside world. It comes from me.

It has to. I’m the chief cook and bottle washer over in the Writesy Press, LLC offices.

But, somewhere along the course of building this brand, I let ‘striving with purpose to achieve my goals’ turn into ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH MUST WRITE NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Somewhere within the last six years since starting this company, I gave up the girl who used to just ride the river of life and end up okie dokie in the end. I went all helicopter parent on my company and gave it zero room to breathe. And it was exhausting.

I don’t have a boss. Other than me. I don’t have work to do. Other than mine. If books don’t hit the market nobody suffers.

Other than me.

Then I realize, despite all the times I felt like a slacker, slug, for sitting on my ass one day or whatever, I still wrote and released three decent stories. Books I’m proud to say I wrote. And between every word, I likely penned somewhere around 250k words last year.

Fuck. Yeah!

And I have my eight month projection calendar filled to capacity with the details of this year’s three book schedule, too.

The difference over doing that last year at this time, I’m not freaking out about getting it all done.

Maybe it’s because I already did it once so I know how to schedule things in more manageable chunks. Maybe it’s because I have a renewed interest in making my dreams come true. Maybe it’s just because I finally decided that I can trust my process.

Regardless why, I’m planning to spend the year doing exactly what I know I need to do on that day to further my goals, and not feel panic because I’m not doing something else/a list a mile long every day.

I’m letting the day guide me and so far, it feels slightly weird but overall pretty good.

A perfect example of this just happened.

I usually pre-write and schedule my blog posts (I’m writing this on Thursday). That way, I can write, proof, and edit before the post goes live.

I didn't even attempt to start working today until a little after 11AM and then took my lunch break at noon. I spent the morning coloring my hair, consuming The Weather Channel blizzard coverage, and scrolling Facebook.

Last year, I would have been mad at myself for not adhering to some strict schedule of work. Like, starting my day at 8AM was vital to my job. It isn’t. Or that ending my day at 5PM is when I’m supposed to stop. It’s not.

But there’s a hockey game tonight at 5PM. And no chance of writing while watching hockey. It’s just too much action and I love that action. It’s how I unwind.

Time. The biggest enemy of a worrier.

Then, with my hair a hot mess of brassy red, as I was booting up my laptop to maybe get started, the Meteorologist on The Weather Channel stationed in downtown Boston said the Bruins game for tonight has been rescheduled due to the weather.

I laughed. Literally, out loud. Because it worked in some weird way. Time wasn’t a factor. And the blog post I wanted to write (so I could do what I said I would this year and be more consistent with posting), is all but finished at this point. Calm and steady. Flowing words without expectations.

All morning I did my thing, not stressing out about time even though I used to tell myself I was wasting a lot. Knowing that the main activity on my calendar consisted of writing this blog post and editing it so I could schedule for posting tomorrow (today when you’re reading this).

Zero panic. And I still have time to do some other stuff that now puts me ahead for starting the first draft of the first book of this year on Monday. If I want to do it. Still trying to decide.

Will I be able to keep up this Zen approach to my work all year long? I don’t know, ask me in August when I have the second book of the year scheduled for release. All I know is I’m going to try.

It feels like success already.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Making Decisions, Maybe

I’m standing in my office, the time is just after 8:00 in the morning. For the first time in what feels like forever I have an entire day to do my job. No contractors. No household / domestic distractions. Just work.

Hell, I can’t even do laundry since the dryer isn’t hooked up yet. (I mean, I can but it takes ages to sort everything after the wash and hang it all on hangers from the shower curtain rod, laziness shall prevail.)

So, I’m in my office at my standing desk doing the one thing that allows me to procrastinate on my job without feeling too bad about shanking it on fiction editing:

Writing this blog post.

Hey, at least I’m still putting words on the page. Even if they aren’t the desired words.

I go through something similar to this every time I write a book. And I justify the break in momentum by calling it my “process” or that “stepping away is a good thing because I can come back refreshed.”

Please.

I’m writing this right now, aren’t I? So technically that means I don’t have to abandon writing in order to work within my process.

Calling it “the writing process” is really just a fancy way of saying “I just did a lot of work developing entire worlds, people, out of absolutely nothing so my brain needs a fucking vacation and no I really don’t care that I just took a vacation 6 weeks ago because I need this.”

Picture back of hand on forehead, woe is me, overdramatized pity party. Because apparently that’s exactly where I’m at right now.

But it’s high time that I get shit back in gear.

I typed ‘The End’ on draft 1 over 3 freaking weeks ago. Between construction madness, contractor chaos, and general life needs, I’ve managed to do everything other than work on my book for the past three weeks.

Either of my books.

You see, I wrapped draft 1 on two manuscripts this summer – Reckless Mind book 3 in my Shaw McLeary Mystery Series, and Carol + Chad 4-eva! Book 1 in my soon-to-be launched California Dreamin’ Series.

I wanted Reckless Mind to be released this past March. I even put it on business cards I ordered last fall that it would be out in March.

Oops.

Turns out, March was the time I needed to open a new document and start the entire manuscript over from word one because the thing just wasn’t working out.

And now the finished draft is doing its own version of tubing down the Salt River on some hot day in July. It is having too much damn fun getting drunk and sunburned, shirking responsibility, to realize it still has work to do.

Put down the beer, manuscript. We have a few more weeks to go before you get to just sit there doing nothing. That doesn’t happen until after I post you for sale on Amazon. Sheesh, learn the order of things would you?

This is the part where I always seem to struggle. I know I have to edit now. I know this is supposed to be the fun part. I also know this is the time to get excited because I’m so close to release.

But like any dedicated author knows this is also the dreaded time of conundrum.

As authors we tend to run around saying things like: “I can’t wait to get this book done and finally out there, I’m just too afraid it won’t be good enough so I’m not sure I want anyone to read it!”

Walking conflict. That’s a writer for you.

I wonder if this shit ever fades?

Like, does James Patterson sit around secretly trying to decide if the book is good enough? If the story has enough tooth to really feel enjoyable to the reader? Or does he write so fluidly, effortlessly, after all these years that he’s long since let go of that fear and releases books with little to no drama?

Honestly, I hope to find out someday. Which of course means I have to release the freaking books, right? I mean, hello? Without more books I can never release more books.

Ugh. Stupid process.

Sure, it would be easy to blame my lack of action on the fact I have 23 kitchen cabinet pieces sitting in my living room, that my laundry area has no drywall/walls, or that I have contractors by the dozen in and out of this house either bidding or doing work.

But if I let those things distract me from finalizing either of these books for the market then I’m just a chump. Because it isn’t like this is my first rodeo. In fact when Reckless Mind is released (someday) it will be the fifth book self-published with my name on it.

Fifth!

Reckless Abandon and Reckless Hearts are already out there not being read by anyone new since their release.

I even have Creative Writing Kickstart on the Amazon shelves, collecting dust after the one copy I sold since it was released.

So why am I so hesitant to just sit down and edit this damn thing? Get it done. Release the fucker and be done with it so I can move on to the next project then finish that too?

As an old friend used to say, what’s my glitch?

Truthfully? I have no idea this time.

In the past it was fear – fear of what people would say about my writing, or worse, fear that nobody would say anything at all.

I’m not afraid that nobody will read it. I have all 10 of my loyal and awesome readers ready (begging me to release this one). And I know all 10 of those phenomenal people will also review the book for me.

I’m not afraid of what people will say. In fact, saying anything, even that you hate the thing, helps me out. Not a lie. All press is good press, right?

Truth be told, I can’t sit here all day writing this blog post. And I’ve rambled on for way too long already. So long, in fact, I’ve moved my location to the living room since starting to write this thing.

It’s time to do my real job now. It’s time to get over the inner procrastinator, put this post up, and start editing Reckless Mind.

See you all next time I feel the need to procrastinate.

So, maybe, tomorrow?

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Womanly Woes

Right off the bat, in case the title didn’t give it away, I need to warn all of you that this is going to be one of those posts. An honest and frank, Bridget Jones esque ranting about all things girlie. So stay and read or feel free to leave because shit is getting real.

Right now.

From the time I was in 8^th grade until about 8 or 9 years ago I weighed 110 pounds. Don’t hate, that’s just who I was, and because I had a raging metabolism I could eat whatever I wanted without much consequence. Look, like I said, don’t hate.

Despite my (total lack of) effort to think myself into that body type and shape forever, close to a decade ago I started developing weight in the wrong places. I know, shocker right?

Thing is, I was never really a fan of sweets (even as a kid) so candy, cakes, soda? I’d go for it sometimes but generally it didn’t hold much appeal. Also, I’m a grazer by nature meaning I eat small bits of stuff throughout the day, not three huge meals. And since I don’t go for sweets I almost always skip dessert.

What I do like is French fries, chips, salty stuff. And exercising is so boring to me. Plus I work on average 10 hour days every day so I decided it would be easier to be lazy than to try to find time for working out.

When I say weight in the wrong places, I’m talking about all the places many women pad to make them look more full. I can’t do that, it just never felt comfortable. Anything push-up is always uncomfortable to me.

I used to wear a 34B bra size. Predictable. Easy. Right off the shelf. I loved my tiny chest. Nothing to sag, bounce, hurt my back. Men didn’t generally fall all over themselves gawking at the nothing that was there and that was fine with me. Plus, I could go without a bra and not end up on the worst dressed list.

I also used to be a size 4. Oh the good old days.

As a human I get the fact that certain parts will change as years go on. Spread, shift, etc. Even a small chest will start to sag eventually because, hello, gravity works on bricks and feathers in the exact same way.

But now I want to smack myself for letting it all grow before it started to sag.

The day I knew things changed was the day I went into my old place of employment to grab a new bra. When they measured me I discovered perhaps the most disturbing fact of all.

Not only had my boobs apparently decided to finally come in at about age 35, but their rate of growth was, um, off. My chesticals were two different sizes.

Sigh.

It isn’t a huge difference but that difference makes it impossible to wear an off-the-rack bra. Well, at least the styles I was comfortable wearing. And forget about anything with a wire or other form of support. Even from a specialty store like my old workplace.

Fabric is fabric and to fit the larger side means things are too loose on the smaller side. Or vice versa of course. Which meant I was going to have to make a choice:

Get off the sofa and try to move my body so the collected fat melts off and I can fit in something more standard, or, accept the fact that I’d be sporting the one long boob look in a wireless shelf bra for the rest of my life.

A friend of mine calls this effect boob log. She’s so right.

A shelf bra will keep them upwards (to a point) but there’s no separation. Just one continuous boob. Nope, that won’t look at all like I’ve given up. Sooo sexy I think they should sell a stick along with the bra so I can beat back all the dudes trying to get up in there. Please guys, I’m a married woman.

Yeah, that will happen.

For a long time, boob log was the lot I allowed myself in life. Always knowing I had two bumps under there but looking at a horizontal tree trunk every time I looked in the mirror. I had to adjust the kind, cut and style of clothing I wore to accommodate the shoulder strap width, too. A thickness akin to a bungee cord, and with just as much elastic.

The problem with that, and honestly the main reason I won’t go bungee jumping, is that elastic wears out eventually. Especially here in the dry desert. Not to mention the water here is so hard it may not actually be water but a liquefied calcium, magnesium, chlorine blend.

So, after washing for just a couple years now, my admission-of-middle-age bra is starting to act elderly.

Sagging has started. The fabric is stretched out and causing folds so large that even Botox couldn’t lift that shit.

The time has come to replace the one bra in my drawer that I’ve sunk to owning. But, as you can probably surmise from all that flabby, saggy, lopsided talk up there, that task is the very last thing I want to do. Ever.

The last time I tried to buy one all that happened was me trying on 10 different types of bras in an array of size choices and going home with nothing more than frustration.

I made the fatal mistake of trying on something other than the boob log bra. Shame on me for wanting to feel like a girl again. For wanting to wear a tank top that doesn’t show my six-foot-wide bra strap at the shoulder. For wanting to have something on my oddly assembled body be a standard size. Like the good old days.

But, as they say, the good old days are gone. Which means the power is in my hands to turn this thing around.

I have actually started working out, walking every day. Why? Simply because I hate shopping. I never realized when I had the off-the-rack boobs not to take that fact for granted. That someday shopping to protect those blobs was going to be the most annoying, time consuming, mentally evil activity I’d take part in.

So my goal is to remove the negativity from my life.

Working out doesn’t change the fact that I still need to go and buy a new bra right now, of course. But maybe, if I’m really lucky (and super dedicated), this will be my last log.

The day I fit back into a bra I actually like I’m using said log to start my fire pit. In my less political,1960’s bra-burning throwback, I’m inviting all the ladies who have gone through bra fit issues in their lives to join me.

In other words, every lady I know.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Writing for Real

I went out the other night with a couple writer friends. One of the things we talked about is where all of us are in our book writing endeavors.

Almost word-for-word, I said:

Every time I sit down to work on book 3 in my Shaw McLeary mystery series I give the finger to my laptop.

Yeah. Kind of been like that lately.

But saying that out loud got me thinking about what I'm doing with my writing life and, after flipping it off repeatedly, how I spend my days since I stopped all progress on the series.

Tweets, blog posts, and a brand new book are all on the daily docket. Yea, new things!

I love writing those things and that’s terrific but what about where I left my audience hanging in the last Shaw book? That phone call? The possibility of a relationship? Her trip to Seattle?

What happens if I just can’t bring myself to write it? What if I feel like giving the book the finger every day of its existence and I don’t release one single title this year?

If I leave the series in the dust and move forward with all of my exciting, new, shiny work instead, what happens to Shaw, JJ, Danny, Krista, Shaw’s sister and mom? Do they languish out there in the abyss for the rest of their un-finished lives?

In short? Yes.

So here’s a few things I need to face facts about:

1. Life isn't fair.

2. I’m being a pansy.

3. Boo hoo I have to do work I don't feel like doing...

Said every employee ever.

However, this is where the unique part of my job comes into play. I'm not really an employee.

Self-publisher, self-employed, indie author means I do actually get to choose what kind of writing I do on a daily, weekly, monthly basis. I get to be inspired and write things that I love. Be floofy! Play with my inner self-ness!

And of course I never have to worry about people forgetting about me and my writing because I take so long to release a book. Oh, and the other thing is I never have to worry about people caring if I answered all the questions from the first two books or not.

Wait, right?

In short? No.

Because I do have readers. People who have read the first two books, reviewed them, mentioned to me how much they’re enjoying the series. Said outright they can’t wait to see what happens in the next book.

That means, no matter how much I want to pretend I can do anything I want, that I can forget entirely about writing ‘the end’ on my series, I know what I have to do. And also what I want to do about finishing the thing that I started.

Whether number 1 up there is true or not I still need to be fair to my readers. As well as myself and my writing. And that means I need to see this thing through to the end I decided on when I started writing the series in the first place.

Because when it all comes down to it, I love writing new things, love scheduling tweets and posting blogs like this where I work out all the crap in my head. But that doesn’t get me the loyal, dedicated readers that I really want for my fiction.

I think I finally figured out that what I need and want to do have to meet somewhere in the middle. Until I figure out how to bring the Shaw book to light, I’m just going to dedicate some time to it every week and do my best to pull a first draft together by the end of February.

Using all of my fingers. 

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