It seems that I have been at a loss for words of late… Last week was a horribly shitty week. Probably one of the worst I can remember, and by far the worst I have ever experienced professionally. Not only was it emotionally drained, but that turmoil of emotions made me physically exhausted. I found myself repeatedly falling asleep on the couch, most times shortly after putting the kiddos to bed, and having to be woken up by M when it was time to move to the bedroom. Multiple posts were started, things on power exchange, blog awards, a short erotica piece; yet nothing is finished, all sitting there with less than 200 words on the screen.
And this isn’t the first time that I’ve struggled with writing. At times it seems the words are there, floating around the ether inside my head, just beyond the grasp of neurological synapses needed to bring those words into meaning, giving them breath and life. *sigh* The woes of being a writer, I suppose.
Anyway, it just worked out that I found myself in this slump, wanting to write, trying to write, but simply not being able to put the words onto paper, when my dear friend Cara reached out, asking for a buddy for the Stop Whining 12 Step/12 Week Writing Challenge.
And yet I find myself hesitant, anxious almost, as I write this, committing to this challenge… And there’s a multitude of reasons for that. First, life gets in the way. I’m disorganized and chaotic in my real life day-to-day. Some weeks it seems like I run around like a crazy woman from the moment I get it up until it’s time for me to go bed. Writing is an easy thing to push off, especially when compared to bathing the children or doing the dishes.
But then I stop and think. Writing is something I want to do. Something I have always wanted to do. I’d love to be able to write full-time, I’d love to be able to publish a novel, I’d love to get all those words swimming around inside my skull out there for the world to see. And the fact remains that if I keep putting it off, especially those things that I don’t like to do *ahem.. rewriting.. cough* then I’m never going to really do them and I should just get over it. Or man the fuck up and get them done.
So, it is here that I find myself, looking over the guidelines for challenge, trying to figure out what is reasonable for me to achieve in 3 months, measurable goals that I can work towards…
And here’s what I’ve come up with thus far…
- Rewrite at least 1 chapter a month from Shades of Purple, the novel I wrote for nanowrimo last year.
- Every Sunday write a post regarding the writing challenge, where I’m at, what I’ve done, how I’m feeling about it.
- Submit a short story. Somewhere. I’m pretty sure I’m going to write a new one, kicking around some ideas in my head. *This is one of the 12 steps, but an important one for me, as I’ve written multiple stories to submit, but have never followed through, fearful of the rejection that every writer must face.*
- Begin working on my idea for a non-fiction piece, somewhat of a memoir, called Diary of a Bad Mom. In three months time, I’d like to have at least 10,000 words down.
- Continue my next novel, Wolf. I wrote the opening scene two or three damn months ago, and haven’t touched it since. I’d like to reach 25,000 words by the end of July.
- Post at least two other times a week here at LSAM, not including boobday.
- Write at least one article a month for SexIs, the online, sex-positive magazine over at Edenfantasys. I’ve written pieces for them before, actually won a writing contest last fall for my Submissive’s Guide to Giving Head.
- Attend the monthly Pennwriter’s group that meets at a local library. It’s on Saturday afternoons, and that’s family time, but I think this would add a level of accountability to my writing… Getting feedback and making changes, developing works, etc, and knowing that in by the next meeting, people are going to want to see what I’ve done.
- Start working on some non-erotica short stories. I’m going to say at least one, between 5,000 and 10,000 words. No fucking clue where I’m going to go with this one.
- Get an outline completed for another almost WIP, Empty, a collection of short stories about addiction and recovery.
- Complete the 5 Sentence Fiction prompt every week, by Sunday. I sometimes do these, in my notebook that gets lugged everywhere with me. But I’m going to start doing them every week, and if you’re interested, which I don’t really expect you to be, I’ll be adding them at the end of my Sunday 12/12 posts.
- Complete the stupid fucking 9 Weeks To Better Sex that I started well over a year ago. I hate it, it needs to be done, and I’ve just got to do it.
So there’s 12 goals. I think I can do them. But I also think it’s a lot. These very well may change as this moves forward, but go big or go home. And here’s a short list of things I need to get done this week, in regards to the challenge…
- Find 2 more blogging/writing buddies. I’ve got Cara. I’m hoping I can get G to join me as well. *emailing her as soon as I get this published… or maybe tomorrow morning* That leaves me in need of one more, at a minimum… Any takers?
- Find a mentor. Again, I’m at a loss with this one. Going to have to think about it. But I want it done by next Sunday.
- Start fucking writing.
So there ya go folks. It starts today. Wish me luck. And if you’re feeling motivated, join me in this adventure. If you want to play along, check out the links above. If you’d like to help me without doing the challenge yourself, by offering critiques and/or advice, please feel free to email me at email@example.com.
Peace out y’all. *hugs and kisses*
5 Sentence Fiction: Shadows
They followed him wherever he went, always in the background, in the shadows, laughing and jeering at all that he attempted, telling him he would fail, that he was worthless, that his life was nothing but a joke. Thinking back, he can’t remember when they started; even in his earliest memories the voices were there, taunting him with their insults, sometimes he thinks he recognizes it as his mother, or his sister, a random bully from school.
But he vividly remembers the first time the voice was unknown to him; it was a Sunday morning at church, when he was 17, and he thought it was the voice of God telling him he was a nobody, would always be a nobody, and he should stop trying to pretend otherwise. At 25, when he finally broke down and told his doctor, the medication helped, it truly did; the voices became quiet, but they were never silenced, instead they reverted to whispered insults and threats, sometimes small enough to be ignored, and sometimes not.
But today, three months without the pill cocktail the doctors had prescribed, the voices were getting to him, and he’d finally had enough; today, they would be silenced.