Still
Taking the week off was good. I'm going to get a little work done on the next book now, before something else shows up, but probably not terribly much. It occurred to me last night that we're very close to one year since I got the initial offer. It seems a lot longer than that, but the calendar says different. And it's just under a year until the book is actually out.
This is why I have trouble blogging. I don't have anything to say. Guess what? I still hate my job. I don't know why I have so much trouble being happy. I want to get to the next level, just like I did last level, and the level before. I still want to be better than I am. I still expect too much of other people. I still have friends all over the place, except for where I am. I still hardly ever talk to the friends I do have in the area.
So anyway. More work on the next book tonight.
posted by Tim Akers @ 1:14 PM
6 Comments:
A friend and I are trying to put together a new gaming group after our last one flew apart due to geography and... personality issues. You should move to Seattle so you can be in it. It's as good a reason as any other.
And be heartened, unless not being heartened helps you write. You are moving up. But you've chosen an ancient pursuit. One that does not move at the speed of broadband. Man sits and scratches symbols on paper. Paper is forwarded around, symbols changed, maybe paper is bought, symbols changed some more, maybe eventually it's sold, some small number of people buy the paper, decipher the symbols, over the course of a few days or perhaps a month, then maybe they recommend the paper to a friend, and so on.
This ain't rock'n'roll you're playing, mate. You are in the grips of The Slow. But you are moving.
This is why I love you, man. This is why I love your writing.
Writing? Yeah, I wish I still did that. My real problem is not being able to separate my work writing from my fun fiction writing anymore. I start writing a fun little story and then I think "I've written documents that saved or took lives. Quite a few of such things in the hot place." And then the significance of the words on my fingertips fades, inevitably replaced with some vague feeling of self-loathing. I think I may not be cut out for it after all. Maybe alcohol would help.
Seriously though, with the pace. Have you thought about this? Man invented writing, and six thousand years later he gets around to inventing the gramophone. The motherfucking gramophone.
This writing of yours, it is not a hasty thing. Scarlett Johanssen does not bust in the door of your study after a paragraph or two and carry you out to meet the press. You have chosen a craft which is only slightly newer than the sharpening of stones. People took their time with stuff back then.
You've been an active writer, seriously seeking to publish fiction for less time than I've known you. And I haven't really known you that long. You already have a bloody novel coming out and a handful of brilliant goddam stories out in magazines. So you the man. Don't stop being hungry by all means, but you ARE doing well, sir.
"Scarlett Johanssen does not bust in the door of your study after a paragraph or two and carry you out to meet the press."
No matter how fervently you might wish such a thing to happen, or that she might burst in and... shut the door behind her.
You are, of course, correct. This was drawn in sharp contrast this weekend when I was talking to fellow writers and comparing career notes.
As disappointed as I am about the lack of content, SC, I totally understand. Life is sometimes life.
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