I’m a bit of a Johnny-Come-Lately to the world of Doctor Who. I remember as a kid watching it with Grandfather but I never bothered with the reboot until I got Netflix last year. The Australian selection of TV options was limited, to put it politely, so Doctor Who it was. I rather liked it. I must have I’ve watched all the available seasons twice. Advertisements
Yesterday I wrote about my “practice novel”, the next piece of writing I’m going to undertake to give myself something to practice on. To learn new techniques, to write only for the joy of telling the story and not worrying about publishing deals or publishing at all. To just write and learn and have some fun.
When you make the decision to write, whether it’s a: story, novel, novella, or short fiction piece, staying with the idea long enough to actually accomplish something can be easier said than done.
I’ve been busy since we last spoke. Not in a “get in there, get things done and have a wonderful holiday by the beach,” kind of way, but in a “it seems like nothing is happening, but I know it is, so suck it,” kind of way.
Writing for me has always been a source of therapy. The good gets recorded, the bad and the moments of “oh dear Lord what have I done now.” All of it is a fodder for the worlds I create and the characters who dwell in them. Last year I started real therapy, and was surprised the Hollywood image of the therapist’s couch didn’t exist. The room was small, square, with a comfy lemon leather chair. I felt a bit ripped off really.
I often ponder the dilemma, plotter or pantser. It’s a conundrum for writers. Do we plot out meticulously the comings and goings, doings and don’ts of our characters, or do we take the bull by the stirrups and give our imagination dwelling squatters free reign to tell their stories on their own.
The other day on twitter I received a tweet from a follower asking why I’d stopped blogging. I thought about it and realised the main reason I’d stopped was that I simply forgot to sit down and do it. I’ve blogged before about being a gold medal winning procrastinator, but it wasn’t procrastination that stopped me. It was simply a case of I didn’t feel like I had anything to say, at least nothing to say worth the time it would take for anyone to read.
Blame it on the flu, blame it on being home for days on end, hell, blame it on the boogie if you like, but the last couple of days I’ve watched a couple of movies that really made my heart sing, and made me realise how far we’ve come since I was younger.
Last year I began writing a gay romance novel, purely for my own entertainment. When I lost my job, my belief in myself and my confidence in everything hit the floor. As unemployment stretched from days to months, my confidence gradually dropped even lower. I stopped doing anything. I stopped writing. I believe that writing was a waste of time, a silly fantasy I had no time for. Since obtaining a new job, I’ve been focused on that to the exclusion of all else. Recently I came across the gay romance novel. I read it and then had a look at a forum I’m a member of, and saw the comments I’d received from other posters who had read a portion of it. I started writing again last Saturday and I’m just writing for me. That said, I’d love to see what others have to say about it, so without any further ado, please find behind the cut the first chapter of my gay romance novel “Calden Cove.” It’s pretty rough, but I sort of …
So as I think I’ve mentioned on here before, I tend to be a bit shy when it comes to anything other than twitter. I rarely take risks. I guess you could say my life is as risk averse as it is possible to be for a 40 year old corporate writer who lives with 3 rag doll cats and his parents.