Meanwhile

Amidst all the drama and whining about my physical pain and its mystery, I am managing to spend at least an hour a day writing. Yesterday it was something like three hours.

I'm re-working the draft from the beginning. I have a tendency to overwrite scenes, having too much in the first draft but missing large pieces that make sense. Or missing obvious "moments" of show-don't-tell. This time, as well, I'm keeping a timeline with characters and locations for reference. It helps with chronology and minor characters, so that Robert doesn't become Roger halfway through the book.

There is also a young woman from Mexico in the drawing class, and I have her number. I need to call her and interview her to understand these little Mexican villages better. I don't think I'll be able to go visit one anytime soon, though that might be possible in the summer.

I'm reading a fantastic book called The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, which is a profound yet simple treatise on The Muse and the invisible but real threshold between amateur and professional writer. In some ways, I have been writing fiction as an amateur, and that has to stop. It's time to push the boat out and cast off. I recommend this book for anyone who wants to examine a plausible reason why they are "blocked" or why they struggle with finishing a project.

Next on the stack is Stephen King's On Writing.

I am replacing one or two hours of television and movies each day with reading these books. It's much easier to zone out in other people's stories, but I just can't afford that kind of creative drain right now. I even find myself thinking in petulant almost resentful terms: hrmpf, the writers have done a story kind of like mine already on XYZ show so why should I bother? NOT GOOD for creativity. Period. So my Netflix is on hold, and the remote is farther away than the stack of books.

If I can push through the physical stuff, this book might get written.