The post-conference slump

I am a terrible person. I go to these writing conferences  (Iceland.....) and come home, alight with the possibilities in writing, and then I find myself committing acts of extreme procrastination so I don't have to actually get down to it. And yet, the conference makes me feel like I NEED to be writing. Ergo: guilt…

Thats it, I’m done.

I can't do it anymore. I took a break, I tried again, I hated every minute.  I've spent I don't know how many dollars and hours taking writing courses over the years. I took them to learn the trade, to force the inspiration, to try to get closer to some real, for life publication.  I've…

So, about that being a writer….

from:http://writerscircle.com/2013/09/writing-perspectives-so-you-want-to-be-a-writer.html So You Want to Be a Writer By Charles Bukowski if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at…

Fallow fields

Tis the winter of my not writing...but for a change, it feels more like a resting field than a concrete parking lot. I can feel the life under the surface, the worms and bugs and roots and earth, cold now, but resting, not dead. As in winter garden, there are still twigs standing, bits of…

The pettiness of the long-distance writer…

Oh, I'm so fed up. With myself, with my not-writing, with this foolishness that I assign myself only to fail. I find myself avoiding reading reviews of new books because the bitterness of "I shoulda been a " is so strong, though I know full well I don't have the stick-to-itiveness to finish my writing…

Time to get fierce with myself…

I've always believed in the clever Ashleigh Brilliant's comment that "wasting time is an important part of living". Some would say I have taken this as my life credo. However, I am usually too busy having fun to listen to these people. Doing what? Well, I've taught myself to knit, I can take a ball…

Nanowriwon’t, or how my life conspires to prevent me from writing…

Okay, it’s morning. I’m awake, perky, eager for the writing demons to take over my head and heart and fingertips and maybe even help me type without the need for constant correction. It works best if I don’t look at what I’m typing, so I can’t see the wiggly red lines under everything. Why, oh…