Writing Rearranged

Jo March had her red cap (before such things were tainted) and writing nook. Those of us who write also have our habits. Thing is, circumstances change.

For the first time in over a decade I’m moving house. Most specifically, I’m moving from an apartment into a house. I’ll keep my day job, but I’ll be telecommuting—whatever that is. Here in my apartment I awoke very early in order to accommodate public transportation. My writing time has been very early.

Weekends have taught me that sleeping in disrupts writing. Indeed, my freshest time is way before dawn. My mind is sharp and alert. I’m productive. I’m energetic. I’m also not as young as I used to be. One of my more self-indulgent activities is to allow myself to sleep until 5 a.m. on a Saturday.

I wake up groggy, uninspired. I sit down to write, weary already. Only with great effort can I shove the pen. I really don’t want to sleep any more, but I don’t want to write either. I must have a fever!

This makes me fear for my new lifestyle. The few people in my life say they’d like to see me keep more normal hours. Not go to bed until 9 or 10. Be better rested. Better adjusted. And what of my writing? What will become of it?

Houses with writing nooks are not easily affordable these days. My new house has a gnarly, unfinished attic. It could have enough privation to make a suitable writing space. Freezing in winter, stifling in summer. I can see myself up there amid the storage boxes, hunched over my desk, bleeding out my soul in words.

Writing is all about habits. Mine, it seems, are about to change. There’s no way I’m going to be buying a red cap. But maybe I can learn a bit from Jo after all.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Neglectful Parents

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect. I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory. Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany. If you can write, you should get paid for it. I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid. I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments. A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript. That’s never happened before. Then the editor disappeared. Even called me by the wrong pseudonym. I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky ficti

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

K. Marvin Bruce

Search This Blog