Writing

It's been ages since I did any serious writing (not counting blogging, and that's often pretty sporadic). I wrote Creating an Heirloom and got it published, and now it's overdue for an update, and I can't get moving on that. Basically, I only have a single chapter that needs rewriting, but it's a pretty important chapter.

Various professional writers will tell you to treat your writing like a job because it is one. Treat it like a hobby, casually, and that's how you can expect to make money from it. Since I was in high school (before, really), writing was something I wanted to do. Over and over, I've let it take a back seat to other things in my life. I've treated it casually. Since I've been pretty cavalier with it, it's not treated me any better. Creativity is a muscle -- it atrophies when you don't use it. And while I have been creative in other outlets, I don't treat that any more seriously.

I finished a short story, about 2500 words (too long for micro or flash fiction, too short for what most people consider to be a "short story"), and now have to decide if I want to shop it around or go the epublishing route that so many authors are using. I'd really like to sell it, but anxiety can be pretty crippling. It's what keeps me from doing most things, actually. I hate it, that evil little voice in my head.

A friend made a suggestion about taking the completed short story, and turning it into a series of related vignettes. I kinda like the idea, I think it would make a nice "package" to publish, but after the (somewhat crazy) inspiration of the first, I'm not sure the others will come as easily. (Back to that creative muscle again...) I got an idea for another story, but the inspiration for it is taking me in the direction of a considerably longer work.

There are other things, too, of course -- there are always distractions. I have an art show this weekend, the first commercial art-related thing I've done since the gallery closed in December. (Shame on me...) I've had some health issues come up this summer. Meetings and appointments for my daughter. Stress. Depression. Frustration. It's been a rough year. You'd think that losing myself in fiction writing would be just the thing! And maybe once I get back after the weekend art show, I'll be able to do that. But today will be consumed with the mundane: dishes, laundry, packing for the weekend.

It's only quarter after 7. Maybe I can sneak some writing in before The Kid gets home from school...