Most people think a writer spends most of his time writing. Go figure! They have the mistaken belief profound words just magically come to the writer. This notion couldn't be the furthest from the truth. In fact, like most endeavors, the writing is the smallest part of what authors do on a daily basis. Although I have no idea what the phenomenon they call writer's block is because it doesn't afflict me, most of my time is spent sitting and thinking.
When I finally do put pen to paper, I have a head full of organized thoughts that flow from my mind onto the page. Thinking is ninety percent of the effort. Imagine that!
Maybe writer's block is about the author putting the cart before the horse and trying in vain to skip the thinking part. Seems so obvious, but maybe I'm onto something. It's at least a notion over which those authors with that affliction should ruminate.
Now, you might assume the other ten percent of my time is consumed with writing. No, that would be an incorrect assumption as well. Once an author publishes his work, there is marketing and business matters to handle. When the dust settles, at the end of the day, a writer is lucky to have one or two percent of his time left for writing new material. It's a balancing act, and a battle to find time to write. Every piece of the publishing business requires a thoughtful approach, so again, thinking is the dominant activity I do in order to get everything to fall into place in as efficient a manner as possible.
Lucky for me I enjoy sitting and thinking. Of course, there's a proper way to do these two, all-important activities. Every artist must find his own way to do these things. I call that The Muse, the thing that inspires the artist to monumental heights.
My Muse is a combination of inputs. I chain-smoke cigars, drink copious amounts of soda, and listen to a mix of music, compiled specifically for the occasion. Yea, preparation for sitting and thinking takes at least a quarter of a percent of my time. You can't attain excellence without treating your Muse with all of the respect she deserves for giving you all the inspiration you deserve. The results make the commitment so worth it. When the collaboration between the artist and his Muse works, it's a beautiful thing to behold!
Time is a resource of which artists must make the most. It must be respected and shouldn't be wasted. Although we would all like to time travel, Time keeps marching on and can't be revisited. Minutes and seconds must be treated as precious treasure more valuable than gold. Waste not, want not.
I am always looking for ways to make my artistic process more efficient and productive. Every little thing that shaves off a few seconds, or when the stars really align in my favor, a minute or two, gives me more time to do what I was created to do, write stories so dark I don't need shades to go out in broad daylight. My wife would disagree my stories obviate the need for sunglasses because I wear dark shades even at night. I keep telling her the sun never sets on the cool, but she just won't believe me on that point.
It's time for me to go onto my next task at hand. Artists, discover your Muses, sit with them, and get to know them. Your artistic expression will go into maximum overdrive, and ultimately, you will be much happier. Life is too stressful to worry about how to produce your work. Art should flow naturally. Finding your Muse is how to make that a reality for you. All I can say, it works for me. Until next time, take the time to sit and think, hopefully dark, fantastical thoughts!
The first time I traveled far in the darkness of my mind I had no idea where I was heading. I didn't know what I was doing, nor where it would lead me. The Cosmos sent vague glimpses for me to puzzle over and put into a perspective, understandable to those who didn't allow their minds to venture outside the knowable bounds of reality. Eventually, I came to an understanding with The Cosmos and accepted my lot as its instrument. The fantasy world will never be the same. At least, I believe I'm imparting something that has been missing from fantasy for a very long time.
Over the last four years, I've written and published five stories, created this website, and gathered a twitter following of just under twenty-eight thousand. Five more tales are well underway. My, how time flies by when you're having as much fun as I've been lucky enough to have had these past few years.
For me, fantasy is more than a simple distraction from the daily grind of life. It's the oxygen I breathe and courses through my veins with every beat of my heart. Only my wife and daughter give me more reasons to get out of bed every day. Not an hour of wakefulness goes by without some fantastical thought racing through my mind. Fantasy is so much more than a cornerstone of my life.
Life pounds you every minute of every day and has a way of eroding the smile from your soul. Fantasy has always served as a buffer to prevent that from happening to me, until recently. The pain Life has dealt me in spades has caused me to stumble and lose my way.
Chronic pain, coupled with news my sister has stage three, now maybe stage four, cancer, has thrown me for a loop. I've been off my game, and as a result, my creative spark has lost its sparkle. My sister's situation was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. It took some time for me to maneuver through the eye of the needle, put everything back into perspective, and get my feet firmly planted upon the firmament of my mind. My wife, daughter, and my beloved fantasy helped me to accomplish that feat. Once again, I'm on the right road and well underway in a direction that suits my pistol.
What precipitated this turnaround came from the most unlikely of places. Recently, while speaking with a longtime acquaintance of mine, he said something that shook me out of my funk. The statement caused my mind to drift from side to side, thinking about what he told me. I don't know if I actually do march to the beat of a different drummer. I suppose if I do, I would be the last to know it. In any event, the comment stopped the world from spinning and forced me to pause long enough for me to pull my head out of my ass.
If indeed, I do have something different going on, I have a duty to share it with the world. Being in a funk gets in the way of doing that and serves no purpose. My drummers need me to march on, or rather, shuffle, as is more the case these days. One stray statement pulled me back from a place of self-pity. My wife, daughter, and fantastical thoughts did the rest. It just goes to show you, one never knows where wisdom might reside. The Cosmos has a way of putting people in your path at exactly the right moment when most needed. You only have to pay attention to Cosmik rhythms and be willing to enter into a discussion with them.
Tonight, I've written more words than I have in the past several weeks put together. My creative spark has ignited my engine of productivity. The road ahead looks so bright I'll need to wear my shades at night. I guess the sun never truly sets on the artist, and I do view my work as an art form.
Well, I need to put my nose back to the grindstone. Hopefully, all of you are on your rightful path. If not, look for signs of The Cosmos reaching out to aid you in your time of need, embrace it, and regain your momentum. Life is just too short to get stuck in the mud on the side of the road!
"Oh yea, mmm, oh harder, give it to me harder. Oh, life's a brick house. Yea, mighty, mighty, just letting it all hang out. Life's a brick house. I like a lady stacked and that's a fact. Ain't holding nothing back. 36-24-36, what a winning hand. Life's the one, the only one built like an Amazon. Life's a brick house." And so the song goes...
I used to like that song. Although the Commodore version did come first, I prefer the Rob Zombie variation. The Zombie is the king at making something cool, even better. Speeding a song up is never a bad thing and as such, his version is off the chain.
When I began writing this post, Brick House was playing in my ear. I know, I got it all wrong, the song is about some "she," but I distinctly heard "Life." Appropriate, Judas Priest's song, Rising From Ruins, is now serenading me, "Lost in Chaos before the storm. Our strength goes on prepared for mortal battle. We're standing as one. We're carrying on, rising from ruins. We're bringing the light out from the night, rising from ruins..."
You'll have to excuse me for tonight's negativity. Generally, I'm into making lots 'N' lots 'N' lots of lemonade from the shitty-ass lemons Life seems to revel in throwing at me. Tonight, I'm not feeling all that positive. I'm playing a list, entitled, Metal Fist, because I feel Life fisting me once again. Yea, one more, not for the road, as Charles Brown might have sung on his album of the same name, but for my posterior, er, posterity. At this point, I'm not sure what the hell I mean. Excuse me while I kiss the sky!
Last week, I found out my last surviving sibling, my sister, who's always stood on first(base, that is) with me and been a favorite of mine, had been diagnosed with two kinds of cancer. Who the fuck gets two kinds of cancer at the same time? My sister, I guess. Par for the course. She's always declared herself lucky and able to beat the odds. She loves to gamble and usually wins something, but can she beat this malfunction? If anyone can, it would be her. This news was equivalent to her getting struck by lightning twice on the same day! Thus the reason last week's post was a tad on the wacky side and according to my wife, the lemons had a sweetness to them.
This week, the docs told my sister, "One of your cancer's at Stage Three." At a festival or restaurant, you might not mind sitting at something called Stage Three. It isn't something you ever want to hear in a doctor's office, or on the phone from your little sister about her medical condition. I'll do my best to keep this post light, but be forewarned, a certain amount of bitterness might just shine on through this week's lemonade.
I always had in the back of my mind the notion I would be the last of my siblings standing. None of them led what one would call healthy lives. A thought is one thing, but when the reality of what that meant finally struck home, it was a completely different thing. Two down, and the last one's at the bottom of the ninth inning with one out to go, clinging onto to her very life with a verve that is admirable. I felt like the rug had been pulled from under me, and I was falling through a dark, endless space. My bearings had been torn from me in one fell swoop, Stage Three Cancer. Fuck me!
Couple that terrible news with a flu bug that shagged my ass, and my week has been far from splendid. My sister is taking the news in stride, giving it the proper perspective it deserves, and bravely crowding the plate to hopefully hit a home run. We'll see. My thoughts, hopes, and dreams are with her. At this point, optimism is all she has, so I'd better lift my heavy heart to do my part by sending her way all the good vibes I can muster. That's the least I can do for her. Hip-hip-hurrah!
Life is a brick house because as a general rule, it's resilient and can't be burned down. No matter how fleeting our lives may be, life marches on long after we've been eaten by the worms. My sister is deathly afraid of that idea and wants nothing to do with it. Even as a child, she didn't cotton much to bugs. She would run screaming through the house at the mere suggestion a spider had crawled onto her.
No, my sister doesn't want to be put into the ground. The thought of bugs crawling over her body causes her to cringe. I told her she wouldn't give a damn, but that didn't give her any assurance on the matter. She wants a viking funeral, to be cremated in a boat on some lake in Vermont. When I told her that probably wouldn't happen because there are laws against it, she simply said, "Fuck the law! My husband knows what I want, and he told me it would be done. End of story!"
From my earliest memories of her, reasoning and rationality have never been driving forces for my sister. I love her to pieces, but those are the facts, Jack. She's always been someone who's worked the facts surrounding her to create her desired reality, and she has never been one to give two shits about the truth of any matter. It makes perfect sense that death wouldn't change her mode of thinking.
This past weekend was a good one, to be sure. Even though I was coming down with the plague, The Gaming Extravaganza was one of the better ones. Everyone and surprisingly, even myself, was firing on all cylinders from beginning to end, forty-eight hours of creative bliss! If every gaming weekend were that cool, I suppose I would have no need to write my stories. Don'y worry, I'm going to continue what I started with DANCES OF DELIVERANCE. Gaming may be a good distraction that energizes me, but it's no replacement for the joy and satisfaction of written expression.
The players noodled through, as one of my friends likes to call it, a series of temporal problems. They did pretty well and most importantly, had a shitload of fun in the process of finding solutions for the puzzles, traps, and problems I put in the way of their characters. I paid for the fun I had over the weekend when the touch of the flu I had at the beginning of the weekend turned into a full-blown bout with the plague this week. As Milton Friedman so aptly wrote, "There is no such thing as a free lunch." At the end of the day, The Piper always needs to be paid his two bits and boy, did I ever pay. It was worth every hack and cold chill!
Having wandered long enough through the slipstream I call a mind, I come to a close for now. Embrace the brick house and her bodacious ta-tas. Until we meet again, grab a fat-bottomed gal, give her a twirl, and have some place to go, wherever that may be!