Toon: Grant Snider
Inky: It’s the end of week two of h.e.l.l. My house is part of that equation, but not the biggest. The biggest by far is the day job. Over zealous expectations, unreasonable deadlines, and sandbox politics have been rampant these last two weeks. Then there is the serving of three masters to add, all with differing goals, visions, and expectations. Exhausting.
I have returned to the place I’m staying every evening and asked the cosmos, ‘what is it? If this is not what, or where you want me to be then show me, tell me what it is you wish me to be doing?’ So far, no reply.
Chucking the day job is the dream, but there is the need to eat, my adventures, gas for Emily (my car), and of course right now construction costs. So the dream lives for the moment.
Writing is my solace. It always has been through the years. It lets me leave it all behind and live in the world of my own creation. It is my escape. You could say, I write to save what little sanity I have left. It would be the truth.
Running a close second [as a writing lesson] was the realization that stopping a piece of work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea. Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.
Colorful tip: Stephen King
Image: Huffington Post
The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words.
lyrical fella: William Gass
digital drawing: rodg-art, on reddit
After all, reading is arguably a far more creative and imaginative process than writing; when the reader creates emotion in their head, or the colors of the sky during the setting sun, or the smell of a warm summer’s breeze on their face, they should reserve as much praise for themselves as they do for the writer—perhaps more.
insight: The Well of Lost Plots, Jasper Fforde
White is the color of little bunnies with pink noses.
White is the color of fluffy clouds fluffing their way across the sky.
White is the color of angel wings and Angel’s wings.
White is the color of brand-new ankle socks fresh out of the bag.
White is the color of crisp sheets in schmancy hotels.
White is the color of every last freaking, gol-danged thing you see for endless miles and miles if you happen to be in Antarctica trying to save the world, which now you aren’t so sure you can do because you feel like if you see any more whiteness-Wonder Bread, someone’s underwear, teeth-you will completely and totally lose your ever-lovin’ mind and wind up pushing a grocery cart full of empty cans around New York City, muttering to yourself.
That was my first poem ever.
Okay, so it’s not Shakespeare, but I liked it.
Poem: by Max, from The Final Warning – James Patterson
Inky: hmmm.. so did I. I’m back, had to take a little break. House is still trashed but I got all Zen about it. Walked away, new backpack and I and lazed somewhere with mimosas. See? Zen…
Doing: surveying the stuff all over my floor, sipping a toddy and wondering when I can come back home…
Doing: Trying to write, and failing. I’m out of my element, and my mind is insistent on returning home before it will let go of the first word. ARGH!!! Where’s the bourbon? Yes I know it’s morning, but bourbon goes well with coffee, right? Right?
I’ll see you sometime, Monday. Maybe…
For those I come from, there is nothing more devouring than the feeling of want for home, the feeling of need for home. We are all waiting for a form of transport, a ship, a saucer to carry us out of the too-dark night.
In Tune: Hanna Assadi
Image: found at shout.co
Doing: So the bathroom repair is coming along. The entire floor pulled up, new joists in place, new shower purchased, new flooring and a carpenter with a big hammer who knows his stuff.
But I feel out of whack. I miss the comfort of my home. Where I am staying is nice, very nice, but it’s not home. Another week or so I’m being told.
Am I whining? You bet your boots I am. I feel like the nuts and bolts are coming loose, I hear them rattling and pinging to the ground. I’m not writing and it’s driving me crazy…
At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night.
Observation: HP Lovecraft
You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you’re working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success – but only if you persist.
Sound Advice: Isaac Asimov
Comic: Charles Schultz
Doing: So it’s like this, evidently my shower was installed wrong, and I will now need a new bathroom. Seriously.
So I’m moving out for the next two weeks while our contractor completely revamps my lovely old bathroom. <sighs>
Mood: Annoyed, Sad. Packing, and muttering, muttering and packing….