On Writing and Kathy with a K.

I was out roaming used bookstores yesterday. I met a woman named Kathy. I’m going Kathy with a K, because I likes it. To tell you the truth, I see that far more than with a “C”.

I could be wrong about that. I have been about such things before.

So I met Kathy with a K in the paranormal section of said used book store. She was looking for the latest Laurel K., I think. I could be wrong on that one, too. I have to admit my minds been on a lot of things lately and simple facts like those mentioned above get a little skewed.

Anyway, I’m on the floor looking for more Stover books. I have this sudden minor obsession with him. I don’t know why…Oh, I’m looking for him in the mini-paranormal section because the sci-fi/fantasy bleeds into it.

Always has really. I got my first paranormal out of my Science Fiction Book Club catalog when I was a teen.

You don’t care. And I see why.

So, I’m sitting there in her way. She’s actually pretty cool about it and before I know it, we’re talking shop, shop for me I guess, books for her. Though again, I don’t really know. I’m making a lot of assumptions based on a five minute interaction with someone I’ve just met.

So we’re talking about paranormals. She’s thinking on Kenyon. I mention this site. As I do, I realize that there’s not much to this site other than my reviews and most of the reviews are on things that have been out for a while. No hardcore reader needs my reviews, except maybe those new to any series I’ve reviewed.

Blehg…..stick to the point. I have a pattern of running from points, especially blunt ones aimed at my chest…

So we’re talking books. I like talking books. I love talking about them, that’s why I started this blog in the first place. I wanted to talk about what I’d been reading while I did my never ending research for my genre. In that realization I asked my self:

Am I a reader or a writer?

After some thought, I have to say both. I think the two go hand in hand and if they don’t it’s a lot harder to be a writer. The more I read the easier it gets for me to write the full length novel. I don’t need a book to tell me how to write a short piece. That’s easy for me. What’s hard is the long term mental organization of anything over 15,000 words.

So I think I need to be a reader to be a writer. There’s an issue with that though.

How much reading is too much?

I’ve read a ton of books this last year. I’ve started a novel. I have finished about 20 books or so, but I’m still working on said novel and the latter is really pissing me off.

I have my reasons. We all do. I think every writer on the planet has a reason for dropping the ball and screwing the pooch on time-lines. I do it all the time. In fact, it’s my greatest talent. I start writing novels and don’t finish them.

And that’s what I’ve been trying to overcome. That’s what I’ve been placing as my god-damned goal this year. Finish writing a fucking book!!! It doesn’t even have to be good; it just has to be done!!!

Is that so much to ask?

Sometimes I think it is. Sometime I think I should stop all of this crap and just be a reader, keep writing my blogs and my little blinks of writing. Fuck the novel, fuck the book, fuck the idea of ever getting published.

At times like these I have to wonder how close I am to my time of the month?

Not gonna look, not gonna check. Hormones can’t get in the way of what I want.

I can though. I can get in my way so damned easily that I trip over myself without even knowing, not until my face hits the floor.

So in my bump and grind mental bitching I’ve gotta ask myself:

What do I need to do to finish a book?

Read? I bought some books on writing. I bought one from Ray Bradbury and one from Stephen King. I’ve never done that before because I believe I don’t need to learn how they write. I need to learn how I write. But this isn’t really about style or stories or the actual writing anymore. It’s about organization, pushing myself, overcoming fears and creating space, really creating mental and physical space so I can get off my mental ass and fucking write a damn book. No, finish writing it.

You know, all I’m asking for is a finished first draft.

So, I’m talking to Kathy with a K. I wanted to be able to tell her I wrote a book. I wanted to be able to point to it on a shelf. I wanted to say , “Hey, that’s me. I wrote that.” That would have been nice. It could still be nice if I push myself to keep on towards that goal.

I though about going to a writer’s groups again. I like my old one, kind of. Truth is, there were some really, really good writers in that group. There were also some really, really crappy ones. (Note to one bad writer: DON”T write fantasy if you’ve never picked up a single fantasy book in your life. It’s obvious and you’re not so profoundly brilliant as to pull jack shit off.)

Sometimes I think I have a few bitter bones in my body. Nah, cynical. That’s not the same thing.

I don’t really know what I’m going to do to focus. I can read more this and that. I can spend one night a week at a table talking to other writers. I can continue to bitch on these pages, but I know that none of that is going to be the key to getting my fingers tapping. They may help, but in the end I am the only thing stopping me from anything.

Maybe I need a few more blunt points aimed at my heart? Maybe then I’ll write screaming to the finish line. Ah, maybe all my book needs is a blood sacrifice.

Or does that only work for mechanical things?


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