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bear by san

March 2017

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bear by san

upon the instruments of death the sunlight brightly gleams

Trust me, you don't want to marry a writer. Or any kind of creative artist, really.

This is not pretty.

It's the end of the book. Since Saturday, I've barely left the house. I had to look at a calendar to figure out what day it is. If I'm away from my keyboard, I'm bitchy and distracted, because the story is eating my head. I'm getting about two thousand words a day, which, okay, for mizkit or jaylake is a solid hour, hour and a half work, but for me is ten hours of butt in chair, punctuated by sanity breaks. I'm washing my underwear in the sink because I can't get the emotional energy together to do laundry (fortunately, I have enough shirts that I can stay clothed without resorting to wearing laundry, and nobody can tell if your black jeans are dirty anyway). If I hadn't had the foresight to make and freeze several pots of healthy veggie-packed soup in anticipation of this day, I'd be living off Purina Student Chow* and not noticing. After a while, my hands start to hurt, and even the pauses for research piss me off, because if I wasn't so stupid I didn't know this already, I could be getting more words now. I could be done by now if I didn't have to sleep, eat, or pee! I'll take the garbage out tomorrow, just shove it down a little! I'll wash the dishes tomorrow! I'll do the laundry next week! I'll sweep the floor when the book is done!

Yessir. When the end is in sight, I get a little bit crazy.

Just a little.

And then I will finish the book, and I will get to use this icon, and it will be accurate, because I will be exhausted and stupid for at least two days. I will eat when I remember to. I will sit on the sofa and drool. I will clean the apartment, because cleaning is mindless and the place will be too filthy to bear. I will go to the gym, and I will remember to play my guitar again, and I will go for walks, and I will call my mother and my friends and email my dad. I will buy groceries, instead of wondering what I can make with a can of condensed milk and three tangerines and then forgetting to eat while I get another five hundred words.

Balance and sanity will resume.

Until the next time.

I'm within fifty pages of the end, I think. I could conceivably finish this by Friday and be a sane person for the Thing on Saturday. If, you know, wearing drip-dry underwear.

Right. Coffee's ready. Break's over, Bear, back on your head.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.




Justine say, "Your Book No Belonga You. She's right as usual.





*Ramen Shame, to be precise

Comments

Since Saturday, I've barely left the house. I had to look at a calendar to figure out what day it is.

I know this doesn't help you one bit, but god, I'm so glad it's not just me. There's times when I go off to the station for a call, and I'll be like, "It's Tuesday, right?" and the others guys all stare nervously, because it's actually Friday morning, and they're wondering who the fuck authorized me to tie my own shoes, let alone drive fire engines...

I do this at the post office, too. "Man, I can't wait for the weekend."

"It's... Saturday morning, sir."
It appears to be common to full-time writers and stay at home moms.

Along with the occasional uncontrollable craving for, you know, adult conversation. *g*
Write. Eat. Sleep. Be sensible later.
Wait, sleep?
Oh, so true. So very true.

I was there just last week. Still haven't recovered.
Just ask feorag what happens when I go into "write mode".

It ain't pretty ...
David seems to be bearing up pretty well. 8-) Then again, he gets into similar states with photography or programming, so he utterly gets it.

I am living for the day when the work in progress will condescend to eat my brain. It is very prissy and fussy right now. Snort.

Here's to a done book AND clean laundry.

P.
You know, I gotta say that after reading [Bad username: jaylake"]'s blog, it's so nice to know someone else needs several hours of butt in seat time to acomlish what he does in twenty minutes.
We're contemplating having [badusernameinljtag] suppressed.

In the Through The Looking-Glass sense.
I just want to say that this post sums up nicely why this site's on my regular reading list. I come for the King Crimson quote; I stay for the Glamour! and the craft wank.

That is all.
Nice to know I'm presenting a balanced perspective on life and work. ;-)

You're welcome!
Oh dear. I'm married to a writer. He's married to one too. I guess that explains the state of the house, then.

(You know, they really ought to bring back apprentices. Imagine all the wonderful uses to which a writer's apprentice might be put.)
(You know, they really ought to bring back apprentices. Imagine all the wonderful uses to which a writer's apprentice might be put.)

Sharpening quills? Doing the dishes? Rotating the writers so they get sunlight on both sides? Lying to editors?

Pandora (see icon) swears that if I get her opposing thumbs for the holiday, she'll only use them for hosuehold chores. And playing on the Internets.

I just forwarded this entire post to my husband and he said, "she's telling me something *I* don't know....?"

Sending completion vibes, such as I can spare,

She Who Is In The Midst Of Edits To Latest Manuscript

I married a visual artist.

I don't mind the photo shoots; the hours in the darkroom (now the computer). But I really, really mind the MARKETING; the design, printing, pickup, stamping, mailing of postcards for shows, the press releases, sitting the galleries when no one shows up. THIS IS NOT CREATIVE, but if you don't do it...

Marrying authors

I lucked out with my Mrs.: She likes having a lot of time to herself and lives in her head a lot. :)
Oh God. I love that end stage. I love the obsession. I love the complete surrender to the story.

It has been too long.

Purina Student Chow

Purina Monkey Chow is nutritionally adequate for humans.

It's also good for young beavers, I'm told.