Heh.

Yesterday afternoon I signed up for the Raindance Independent Author Book Fair.  It's something I wanted to do - truly for the last 2 months since I found out about it.  Last night I spent the majority of the evening trying to talk myself out of it.

See, here's my dilemma.

As an independent author, I've go no one but my readers to get feedback from.  I have no way of knowing what I'm doing right or wrong.  I've sold books, which is great - no a lot, but some - but I've only had 5 reviews on amazon.  Less on goodreads.  Does this mean that the purchases were pity purchases?  Some perhaps.  Some were by my friends just to show support - some were by those who will actually read the book.  The reviews I have to believe were honest, and not just ego boosts.

As I head into this book faire, I have that crushing feeling that THIS is where I'll be found out.  I'll be laughed at, and looked at as not a real writer (which the logical side of my brain feels is tremendously ridiculous as EVERYONE there is independent - not just me...

I guess I have one giant case of the nerves!

I've got some ideas for my half of the table.  I've got some idea of a display and I'm desperate to purchase a pair of Manolos for it - even just for the display to be returned the following day...  I don't think I'm quite that desperate - I'll come up with something else clever...  perhaps a couple of drag queens standing behind me fanning me??  Handing out bon bons??

We'll see...

It was bound to happen...

I'm not sleeping much these days.  Blame a brain that won't shut down, a mattress that needs to be flipped or a needy feline, it's happening.  So once again, I found myself up before the dawn, bundled to the ears, sitting out on the deck in the bracing chill of an October morning.  It's an easy eye-opener as the espresso maker is warming up.

This morning I found myself sitting staring at The Seven Day Bad Date, and thinking it wasn't great.  Each sentence I read, each scenario that presented itself seemed contrived.  When I was working on it last week, I didn't feel that way; when I was writing it I didn't feel that way, but this morning I did.  I do.

I know I'm a new author, I know I have a unique voice in my storytelling, but what compels people to read?  To review?  What am I doing right and how do I fix this story?  Do I need to?

I flipped over to Amazon and I've got no new sales.  I flipped to goodreads and I've got no new reviews.  So is my creative voice an effective one?  Does that matter?

UGH.

I know I've got to market Sole.  I just don't know how.  It's a challenge to do anything with businesses when you work in the film industry because you are always unavailable during business hours.

All I know, and to end this rambling post, is that I have to do something differently.  I have to get involved in groups that don't rely on 9-5, I've got to move on, move up, and chalk this morning up to a bad creative moment.

Tomorrow will be better.

Hidden gem - AKA surprises to the unorganized

I am not an organized writer.  I'm not necessarily an organized person overall - except when it comes to work - then I'm ridiculously organized.  Go figure.

I am sitting here at my favourite coffee shop intending fully to delve back into the world of my next book 'The Seven Day Bad Date'. I haven't looked at it in months.  As I was scrolling through 'Pages', past work documents (all filed neatly according to show), I found a poem.  It was titled.  There was a date listed below the title, but I was too curious of the contents to make note of it.  I mean, I delve into writing poetry occasionally, but it's not something I concentrate on.  Much like my other writing endeavours, it's either there, or it isn't.  I get things out onto paper and they dissipate in my brain.  Writing is my therapy...


She was turning to stone
Evidenced on her skin
the cool, rough gray hue
long since forgotten the warmth
of a lover's touch

She was turning to stone
Tears dried and absorbed and forgotten
the resigned peace replaced with a resounding
Crack -
Fissure for breath

for now

She was turning to stone
the fluid dance of life slowing
into barely a turn
of wrist and ankle

She was turning to stone
protective cocooning of body
and mind
and heart
and

So when reading this ditty, I had to wonder... did *I* actually write this?  I have no recollection of it, although the feelings are familiar but not one's I dwell on.

I called upon my two trusted creatives-at-arms... we frequently share amongst ourselves...  projects we're working on, ideas, inspirations...  I love these two women - did one of them write it??

Nope.

It was me.

Who knew??

So a couple of points to be made here...

1)  When the feeling strikes, write it down.  Get it out of your head and down onto paper.  It might not be the best writing out there, but, as is shown clearly above, it can get rid of a demon in your head.  Obviously writing that made me feel better - or at least... lighter...

2)  Organize your stuff!  You may find little gems months after you've originally written them!  You may find an incomplete story that sparks your creativity again!  But why go through all of that?  All it takes is a folder labelled.  All it takes is a printer and a folder.  That's all...

Who wouldn't find this inspiring? (AKA: Why I'm sacrificing sleep)

Me Time

I'm exhausted.  And fulfilled.

I'm typing this on my balcony.  It's 8am.  I've been out here, coffee in hand, since 6 and I have been writing.  This doesn't happen every day when I'm in the middle of a show - most days sleep wins over everything, but today I'm really glad I got my tired ass out of bed and showered and dressed early.

My favourite time of the day is early early morning.  There's a hum that occurs over the city in the early hours that I find incredibly soothing, and whether it's that city white noise or my half-sleep state, I find my brain can go to a creative place.

I wasn't writing anything in particular - I had an indulgent, 'write whatever comes' experience, and it was lovely.  And yes, it was indulgent... and decadent, satisfying, and oh so needed!

As the city came alive, transit busses started motoring by, and construction crews started working across the road, and the sun started peeking up over the Second Narrows Bridge, my inner creative got sparked out of sleep, stretched, got to moving.  It was lovely.

My call time today isn't until 10, so I still have another hour before I have to leave for work, and I plan on making the most of it.  I can truly start the day now, having stretched my own imagination, and take on the challenges that will inevitably present themselves knowing that what really matters has been lovingly tended to and the rest is just gravy.

What's your favourite time to write?

My writing life

Have you ever had one of those days where all you want to do is write but the universe is conspiring against you?  I seem to have those days more often than not - especially when I'm working.

When I'm on a project, I work 10-15 hours a day intensively.  When I get home, the last thing I want to do is look at more words on a page or create more.  I want to sleep.

Today I woke up with story ideas roaring through my brain.  I had snippets of dialogue yelling at me as I was showering, the image of a living room came to me as I was heading down the elevator to my car.  I drove to work with lines of dialogue on the tip of my tongue - and stepped into the world of someone else's imagination - a set from someone else's imagination and am looking at script pages with someone else's words on it.

I'm feeling awfully discombobulated.

I can only hope that the words stay with me - the emotion of this new story is easily retrievable when I sit down to write again on the weekend...  5 whole days away...  :: sigh ::

Watch this Space!