October 7th was my 67th birthday. On that date, I posted the following article on my group, Scribblers' Den, under the title Fading Away...
It was Douglas MacArthur who told us that “Old soldiers never die, they just fade away.” The end seems to come more suddenly for old writers. Today is my 67th birthday, and like most of you, I have written for recreation for most of my life. That seems to be at an end. In November of 2013, I published my first book, garnering a number of favorable reviews, and admiring comments from an admittedly small number of readers. It was a fun experience nonetheless, and I wrote a sequel, publishing that in February of this year. Since then, I have found myself unable to get the muse to get up and run, or even get up and walk.
In the eight months since the release of Beyond the Rails II, I have struggled with stories in two formats across three different genres. The pattern is the same in each case: I can still create characters just like always. I can design settings just like the old days, and create stunning worlds and situations to put them into. I can still stack words in a manner that pulls readers in and gets them hooked, and that gets me about a quarter-way into the book. Then we come to the creative part, the part where the author has to set this grand machine he’s built into motion and take his readers on the sort of journey that readers expect from the authors they follow. This is where the process falls flat. I go to the well again and again and again, and again and again, the well is dry. It isn’t that the muse won’t get up and walk; I can’t prod him out of his cage with a stick. Not only have I been unable to carry anything to completion, but I have disappointed a score or so beta-readers, most of whom are personal friends. It goes without saying that I have disappointed myself, having lost the ability to do something that I have enjoyed all my life, and this has started to become stressful to the point of maybe becoming irritable with people I care about, so it’s time to put an end to it.
I’ve never been much on New Year’s resolutions. It just seems silly to pick an arbitrary date on the calendar and say, “This is where I’m going to change my life.” But one’s birthday, it seems, should have more significance. So on this day, I look back at eight months of wasted hours every single day spent plotting, planning, constructing, all for nothing to show for it at the end of the process, and it’s time to decide whether I’m still a writer. Of course, I’m being rhetorical now. That decision has been made for me by that lump of former creativity that can’t be prodded to his feet with a sharp instrument. I ponder reasons. Is it that, having gotten published, and being well-received, my subconscious has checked book writing off of an unseen bucket list, never to be revisited? A coworker suggested that, having gotten paid for writing books, it has left the realm of fun, and moved firmly into the “work” column. Could be. Whatever it is, it’s buried in my subconscious where I can’t get at it, and the bottom line is that I can’t write anymore. And so, accordingly, my Birthday Resolution is that I’m not going to worry about it anymore. I’m going to toddle off to bed, and when I get up tomorrow morning, instead of spreading out notes and maps and pictures, and staring at them all morning, I’m going to fire up my copy of X-Com: Enemy Within on my 360, and wait for the girls to get up so we can have a birthday party; I’ve been told to expect a good one!
Now, all the preparation required for writing is to pick up a pen, and the possibility always exists that this could come back at any time, but until it does, I’m not going to worry about it. It’s like chasing a dog. You want to catch a dog, you have to get the dog to chase you. I guess that’s about it. This isn’t how I want it to be. Most of my friends are writers, and I don’t want to be an outsider to them. I don’t want my handful of fans to forget about me and move on. But people have to deal with things they don’t want every day, and I guess this pretty much qualifies as a First-World Problem. If it comes back, I’ll start again. If it doesn’t, thanks for everything. No complaints; I had a ball.
As to the Den, have not a worry. I will never do anything to jeopardize what you all have created here. I may be pretty close to inactive, but I will still welcome the new members, answer questions, and always have my plasma sniper rifle ready to liquefy any trolls who appear in our midst. I'll be checking in at least daily, and anyone who talks to me can expect a prompt reply, but the magic is gone. Time for retirement, methinks, and if the economy won't let me retire from my "money" job, I guess I can afford to retire from this one. Like I said, I had a ball, and I'll be around. Maybe there's some enjoyment to be had from your successes. I hope so. Now take up your quills, go forth, and conquer!
In the eight months since the release of Beyond the Rails II, I have struggled with stories in two formats across three different genres. The pattern is the same in each case: I can still create characters just like always. I can design settings just like the old days, and create stunning worlds and situations to put them into. I can still stack words in a manner that pulls readers in and gets them hooked, and that gets me about a quarter-way into the book. Then we come to the creative part, the part where the author has to set this grand machine he’s built into motion and take his readers on the sort of journey that readers expect from the authors they follow. This is where the process falls flat. I go to the well again and again and again, and again and again, the well is dry. It isn’t that the muse won’t get up and walk; I can’t prod him out of his cage with a stick. Not only have I been unable to carry anything to completion, but I have disappointed a score or so beta-readers, most of whom are personal friends. It goes without saying that I have disappointed myself, having lost the ability to do something that I have enjoyed all my life, and this has started to become stressful to the point of maybe becoming irritable with people I care about, so it’s time to put an end to it.
I’ve never been much on New Year’s resolutions. It just seems silly to pick an arbitrary date on the calendar and say, “This is where I’m going to change my life.” But one’s birthday, it seems, should have more significance. So on this day, I look back at eight months of wasted hours every single day spent plotting, planning, constructing, all for nothing to show for it at the end of the process, and it’s time to decide whether I’m still a writer. Of course, I’m being rhetorical now. That decision has been made for me by that lump of former creativity that can’t be prodded to his feet with a sharp instrument. I ponder reasons. Is it that, having gotten published, and being well-received, my subconscious has checked book writing off of an unseen bucket list, never to be revisited? A coworker suggested that, having gotten paid for writing books, it has left the realm of fun, and moved firmly into the “work” column. Could be. Whatever it is, it’s buried in my subconscious where I can’t get at it, and the bottom line is that I can’t write anymore. And so, accordingly, my Birthday Resolution is that I’m not going to worry about it anymore. I’m going to toddle off to bed, and when I get up tomorrow morning, instead of spreading out notes and maps and pictures, and staring at them all morning, I’m going to fire up my copy of X-Com: Enemy Within on my 360, and wait for the girls to get up so we can have a birthday party; I’ve been told to expect a good one!
Now, all the preparation required for writing is to pick up a pen, and the possibility always exists that this could come back at any time, but until it does, I’m not going to worry about it. It’s like chasing a dog. You want to catch a dog, you have to get the dog to chase you. I guess that’s about it. This isn’t how I want it to be. Most of my friends are writers, and I don’t want to be an outsider to them. I don’t want my handful of fans to forget about me and move on. But people have to deal with things they don’t want every day, and I guess this pretty much qualifies as a First-World Problem. If it comes back, I’ll start again. If it doesn’t, thanks for everything. No complaints; I had a ball.
As to the Den, have not a worry. I will never do anything to jeopardize what you all have created here. I may be pretty close to inactive, but I will still welcome the new members, answer questions, and always have my plasma sniper rifle ready to liquefy any trolls who appear in our midst. I'll be checking in at least daily, and anyone who talks to me can expect a prompt reply, but the magic is gone. Time for retirement, methinks, and if the economy won't let me retire from my "money" job, I guess I can afford to retire from this one. Like I said, I had a ball, and I'll be around. Maybe there's some enjoyment to be had from your successes. I hope so. Now take up your quills, go forth, and conquer!
Having made that public statement seems to have freed me from "chasing the dog." Now, it seems, the dog just might, might be chasing me. There is a spark there yet, and I'm going to pretend to not see it in hopes that it will begin to clamor for my attention instead of the other way around. Some ideas and concepts have tentatively intruded in my idle moments, so I'm waiting.
I did indeed have that wonderful birthday, collecting among other things, three boardgames, superlative vehicles to bring together friends and family. We're gearing up to play one today, The Dead of Winter, a cool-looking zombie apocalypse game with a work-together vibe, but a hidden traitor to make things interesting. This is not only promises to be a cool bonding experience for us, but generally, the imagination and problem-solving activities involved tend to bring my creative tendencies to the fore, so maybe there will be some progress on the writing front, who knows?
So, having tomorrow morning off, my plan is to get up early as I always seem to do anymore, spread out my notes, and wait for the puppy of creativity to come padding back to see what I'm up to. Will it work? Time will tell, and I'll let you know here. I sure want it to work. In the meantime, I'm posting samples of the project at Scribblers' Den. Go into the discussions and look for Stingaree. I'll try to make it worth your while! I'll be back here with an update in about two weeks (key word: about). While you're waiting, read well, and write better!
I did indeed have that wonderful birthday, collecting among other things, three boardgames, superlative vehicles to bring together friends and family. We're gearing up to play one today, The Dead of Winter, a cool-looking zombie apocalypse game with a work-together vibe, but a hidden traitor to make things interesting. This is not only promises to be a cool bonding experience for us, but generally, the imagination and problem-solving activities involved tend to bring my creative tendencies to the fore, so maybe there will be some progress on the writing front, who knows?
So, having tomorrow morning off, my plan is to get up early as I always seem to do anymore, spread out my notes, and wait for the puppy of creativity to come padding back to see what I'm up to. Will it work? Time will tell, and I'll let you know here. I sure want it to work. In the meantime, I'm posting samples of the project at Scribblers' Den. Go into the discussions and look for Stingaree. I'll try to make it worth your while! I'll be back here with an update in about two weeks (key word: about). While you're waiting, read well, and write better!