I’m blogging less but I’m writing more. I’ll take that trade. Sorry, Jimmy.
I never stop chastising myself through unproductive phases – I keep hoping I’m going to solve some mystery about the roots of the unproductive times and thus re-make myself as a happy, perpetually writing machine. I always remember that little legend of the late, great Isaac Asimov spontaneously writing a short story on a bet during a live TV show.
The problem is, I’m no Asimov, and I don’t think machines are happy.
So I remain imperfect, illogical, and streaky. I have phases. This is one of them.
I have about 10 pages of the new screenplay – it’s clear I’m going to be alluding to it so I suppose I should christen it the way I have The Vegas Project and others so you know when I’m talking about it. I’ve made no secret that it contains highly personal elements – this is distinct from an “autobiographical” project, which I would find boring. It’s more like a fictional remix of some sights I’ve seen and feelings I’ve felt in a world I feel like I know well. People who know me well would find things that are familiar, but would have to cope in their own ways with it not being literal.
Anyway, why hide the title? I’m calling in The Ghost Light.
10 pages is on its way to being a not-foolin’-around amount of material. What I’ve done has been easy so far – a lot of disparate entrances and fleeting moments. I’m not just straying from my methodical habits, I am actively fleeing them. I think that’s going to make these first pages go quickly, and the middle-and-end bits much, much slower. Should be an adventure.
I also have 7 pages of my new collaboration with Adam, and over half of a new short story. I put the novel work on hold for a few weeks, but yesterday’s session brought a couple hundred words to that and the rust fell off without any trouble.
It takes a few weeks to form a habit, and I’m in a good habit now of getting out a couple of nights a week. I think I’ll get twitchy if I don’t make my Tuesday night visit to Rockin’ Crepes – the waitresses know me now.
I fought that sort of thing for so long – I argued to myself that I have a perfectly good computer at home, and I don’t have to buy an overpriced cup of tea to justify sitting there, and therefore, if I couldn’t write there, I wouldn’t be able to write somewhere else anyway, so why go out?
Doesn’t work like that. For whatever reasons, I distract myself in my room, but put me in a library or a cafe, even one with free Wi-Fi, and the switch is flipped.
I am highly illogical. I am streaky. I am writing.