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The customer is always write

I mentioned in my last post that I found yet another way to keep my writing on track and that I might share it. So that’s what this post is all about.

Bagging your groceries…and my life
One thing I’ve learned from moving to a new province is that no matter where I am, living on a single income is frigging difficult. I took a pay cut when I moved to B.C., but it was worth it to me to be surrounded by the fresh, misty, ocean air that revived my soul at a time when I needed it most. I knew that pay cut would make life hard for me for the first two years, and holy shit, am I ever feeling it now. To try to cover my ass and stop buying groceries using my credit cards, I picked up a second job at a local grocery store.

I don’t want to work, I just want to bang on the typewriter all day
I worked at this store for one week, making minimum wage, when I realized the extra cash I was making wasn’t going to go far. I thought to myself, “Self…what the f*&k are you doing? You have two bachelor degrees, make them work for you dammit!” So I quit. It felt great. I really like quitting.

Now, you might be thinking that some cash is better than no cash, and you wouldn’t be wrong. I just figured I can get it another way.

You see, I get this weekly email full of freelance writing opportunities. These include publications putting calls out for short stories, essays, article pitches, etc. So, what if I took those 8 to 16 hour shifts I was working at the grocery store and put them towards writing article pitches and submitting my short stories for publications? Sure, it’s not consistent income, but it’s in line with my favourite thing in the world: writing.

If my pitches get picked up, then they’d be rewarded by a nice chunk of cash and my name would get published. It’s easier to apply for freelance opportunities once your name is published and you can send live links of your work along with your pitches.

All this extra writing will be excellent practice for me and it’s so much fun! And, isn’t that what life is supposed to be all about?

Yes. Yes, it is.

In my next post, I will take you on a journey as I debate whether or not to participate in Nanowrimo this year, and if so, how. I know…I said I really wanted to before. It’s not about a desire to participate, it’s all about my writing process. Stay tuned.

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Murder as motivation

Bodies in the water, writing fodder

I was cycling along my regular commute to my 9-5 job, when I glanced off into the waters of the Gorge, searching for a heron. I saw an unidentifiable blob of something or other, and immediately assumed it was a body. Obviously, if there is a body in the muck of low-tide, it is put there by nefarious means. Side note: this is familiar territory for me – I also used to assume garbage bags on the highway between Calgary and Edmonton were fully of body parts dumped by ne’er do wells. Anywho, this maybe body sparked an idea for a new novel. I don’t want to give too much away, except to say that it will involve the supernatural, murder, horror, and all those delicious, juicy, gory details.

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This is the Gorge. Sometimes bodies and feet are found here.

But, how does this new idea actually = motivation?

A new idea puts pressure on me to finish my current project, so I can give it life — insert maniacal laughter and statement: It’s aliiiiiiive! Pressure is like gasoline to a procrastinator.

I also have a date when I want to start writing this new book. Every year, I participate in Nanowrimo, which is in November, and I want to write this murderous tale during that competition. This gives me until November to finish revisions on Deer Ethan, which is an entirely attainable goal. Now that I’ve got the added excitement of creating this new one to keep me going, it has to happen. I will not let myself write the new book, until this one is done. And, I really want to write this new book. And, I really want this one done. So, there you have it, murder as motivation.

Thank glorb for good friends and notebooks…

As a side note, I want to express my gratitude for all the great people in my life. Today’s shout out goes to the friend who randomly handed me a notebook on the street. I’ve been giddily filling it ever since. Of course, as a writer, I’ve got notebooks sitting everywhere. Key word: sitting. Not being used. Languishing in their forgotten prison-like cube of a bookcase. The timeliness of this friend handing me this treasure (pronounced tray-zure), was on point, following after one of my previous posts where I lamented my lapsed habit of carrying one with me at all times.

Byeeee…but first…

…I’ve come up with another idea to keep my writing on track. I may, or may not, share this in my next post. Stay tuned to see if I do! Or not. It’s really up to you. I hope you stick around though, and keep reading, commenting, rolling your eyes, whatever.

write, writer, book, novel, writer's life, writing process

Solution: Force the levees to break

Can we fix it? Yes, we can!

It’s only been a few days since my last post, but I think it acted as a form of emotional catharsis. Since I wrote it, I’ve successfully jotted down multiple ideas in a notebook, read a lot, revised some of my own novel, finished a draft of an article for Beautiful Bizarre Magazine, and started building questions for my next interview.

The parts that I’m most proud of from the list above, are the revisions on my novel and having the notebook on hand to write something down on (thanks to a good friend for buying one and handing it to me moments before a Ghost Walk).

Now, I’m not saying that I am fully healed and set to go. No. But when I woke up this morning, I took a deep breath and instead of launching myself into my regular routine that prioritizes everything else but writing, I stayed in bed and read. I started my day off with words. I gave myself permission to do so, which, for me, is very hard to do.

I think admitting to and letting out what I had been feeling gave me a sliver of acceptance. It’s out there now. I don’t have to swallow it anymore. Here’s an alliteration party for you: swallowing slivers sucks.

I’m thoroughly convinced now that this blog is going to be an important piece of the motivational puzzle that helps me get through the revisions on my novel, and back on the consistent writing train. These posts will act as breadcrumbs on my trail home.

…sick of the cliché’s yet? Me too.

Signing off,

Angela

Thanks for reading!

Typewriter, typewriters, writer, write, writer’s life

Processing writer’s block: What do you do when it all gets to you?

I used to write all the time. I carried a notebook with me everywhere and would always be found jotting down ideas. More often than not, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and bleary-eyed, I’d pick up a pen and the writing pad on the nightstand next to me, and write out the dream I had, or the idea that was running through my brain making it nearly impossible to sleep.

But then, something happened. I hit a block. It’s not that the ideas weren’t there, but I hit a depression that struck me so deeply, I actually felt nauseous when I tried to write. It scared the shit out of me.

While I managed to pull myself out of that dark pit, I have been working on healing a broken heart that has been a very long, slow process, one that is taking much longer than I’d like to admit. I’m uncomfortable with it. I’m struggling with it. And my writing is suffering for it.

For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t writing. Or, no, that’s not it. I couldn’t allow myself to admit that a heartbreak, or a guy, or anyone would ever affect me so much that I couldn’t do the thing that meant the most in the world to me. Are you kidding me? ME? I thought I was a ferociously independent woman who didn’t need anyone but herself to get by. This couldn’t be! But it was. And I had let it happen. I let myself get buried so deeply in someone else’s dreams that I didn’t let my own matter anymore. Side note: this isn’t any other individual’s fault. This is my own. No one forced me to get so invested in anyone else, it was my own co-dependent nature that did this to me. It is something I am doing my damnedest to work on so I never do it to myself again.

But now I find myself wondering if writing is even something I should be trying to do anymore. I love writing for work (corporate content). I love writing for Beautiful Bizarre Magazine (go check out my posts here and here). I don’t know if I love writing novels any more. I thought maybe I should just quit, and if I could let myself quit, then that would be my answer. But, my entire being resents and rejects that. I can’t quit. I don’t want to. I want to finish revisions on this book I’ve been trudging through for the past three years. I want it. I know I want it. So…the question is…what is the hold up?

I’m still healing and growing and learning, but I want to figure out how to write through the ups and downs, because life is not going to be a perfect, flat road forever, and I certainly don’t want it to be. That’s boring as hell.

I’ve got self care nailed down. I exercise regularly, get out with friends, read, sketch, take nights off to watch Netflix, play video games, cuddle the cat, you know, all the good things. But, I still have this weird feeling about working on these books. Maybe it’s just revisions.

Anywho, I didn’t write this post because I have answers. I wrote it for a few other reasons:

  1. Social media makes everyone’s life look easy. It’s a lie. We all fight our demons and I don’t want people to think my life is sunshine and rainbows all the time when it isn’t. I think that’s okay. And, I think it’s important to share that so everyone else knows that it’s okay to hurt sometimes (saying all this though, I want to be clear that I’m not looking for a hug or pity, I’m just being real).
  2. I’m searching for answers. If anyone has ideas, advice, or tips to help me get my writing back on track, please share.

That’s it. That’s all for me today.

Oh! One more thing. The focus for this blog is going to change a bit. Initially, the idea was to share short stories I was writing, but most publications consider blogs to be published work, and they won’t take published work. I’ve written a number that I haven’t shared here, so the blog has been deceptively empty. I’m going to write more about writing challenges, continue with prompted blurbs that I don’t intend to build on and share a bit more about what inspires me. Perhaps sharing these types of posts will help me process my crap a bit more, and inevitably lead me back to delving in to the writing again.

Thanks for reading!

Describing her

You can feel the air buzz as she nears, as the very atmosphere shakes with the echo of her frenetic energy. You make the mistake of lifting your head from your desk, intrigued by this change in your external environment, and you catch her eye.

Next, you feel the jarring shock of her exuberance as she greets you with way too much energy for 9 a.m. in the morning, or really, at any time of the day.

Her eyes are open wide, a constant look of wonder and surprise keeping them this way for just a bit too long. Her long, thick, black locks either cascade wildly down her back, or are pulled tight into a bun at the top of her head, pulling her long features up and making her eyes and nose stand out more than is necessary.

The scent of cigarettes and stale perfume permeates the air around her, billowing out from the folds of her cheetah-print clothing.

She smiles at you, at your neighbour, at everyone, the sheer pleasure of being alive and in this place, this very office, at this desk, in your presence, exudes from every pore and attacks your own self, making you want to skirt away from her and end this discomfort.

Awkwardly, you smile and side step out of wherever she may have caught you, feeling guilty for wanting to be away, but also grateful that the place you now find yourself in is calmer, serene, and you take a deep breath in relief.

As you get to know her better, her quirkiness begins to grow on you, and you find yourself wondering at her ability to laugh when the inside of her head is a dull staccato thumping headache that keeps the rhythm all through the day, never missing a beat, or wondering at how she can smile and joke while her insides twist in cramps that would double you over. You find yourself wishing you had the ability to find joy while shit is hitting the fan. And, although she comes across as rough, she’s got a kinder heart than many of the fake-polite people you’ve run into in your life.