I read a lot of author's blogs. GRRM, Gaiman, KVTaylor, and Jim Hines to name a few.
The one thing I've noticed is that always seemed to have a lot to say about their writing. Me? I don't. If you're looking for some in depth talking about process, or something that acts like a "Guide to Writing" it isn't going to be found here.
I was conditioned at a very early age to not
talk about my writing and although I am over thirty, I still retain that. Word counts are safer as are websites, and the little tricks I find out to get me writing/submitting.
So that's a lot of what you will find here, and why my posts will, on average be rather short. I don't want to bore you, or tell you that X is happening in my life unless it pertains to my writing, and that, only if I feel comfortable enough to relate it.
My posts may be short, but never deny that I struggle every day with pouring out what is going on with my writing.
(Though, lately, with the vertigo, I have to admit that the writing is getting curtailed in favour of lying around like a lump. Heh.)
Today, however, my writing did pick up again. Sometimes, lying around and reading random books can be a good thing.
Yesterday, I attempted to rejoin the word wars, and regain my momentum with getting KoO done.
It just wasn't happening. So, instead of forcing it, I backed off. Last night and this morning I pulled out an old book of mine, and began reading. It's a collection of short, erotic, stories.
This morning, while lying down, I was suddenly struck by inspiration. I suddenly knew
what had to be done and how to do it.
And in 90 minutes I wrote 3k+ words, finally. They just flowed, and finally appeared on the screen where they were supposed to be. I never would have thought of erotica
to be an inspiration for dragon sci-fi/fantasy.
However, I will not argue. The words getting down is the most important part.
Right now, the vertigo's gotten bad again, but I know I did those words and for the most part, they are good
I'm very happy with them. So, I will give you a small sample:
Grey wetness cloaked him in cold. He stood still, golden scales dulled by the lack of light. Looking off to the southeast, he didn't move. A part of his mind and heart moved down there, exploring a supply depot that they'd found.
Two days ago, men and women stood in his spot, soldiers doing their duty, and prepared to fight if necessary. They'd probably never thought it would be necessary.
The wind swirled through the greyness, and rustled his wings. Sapphire blue eyes remained trained on the southeast. He didn't want to divert his attention, for fear that he'd miss something. Behind him a rock shifted and he turned his head, snake-fast and silent. Nothing stirred the winter chill above the cavern he'd collapsed, after killing the soldiers.
Cold rain and sleet drifted down from the sky, creating an ice-layer over his scales. Still, he didn't move.
This is what inspiration does. I am not going to argue with it.
I need to get lunch and maybe poke it again, see what happens.