I went silent.   Almost a week.  Perhaps by the time I finish this post, let it marinate and then publish it, there may be more than a week passed me by.

I will blame summer. 

Too much free time brings an emptiness of schedule casting an odd malaise of soul and spirit I guess.   But I will also blame Sons of Anarchy, since I have lost 66 hours this week watching seasons 1-5.  That is a lot of time gone, yet I hesitate to say wasted.   Let me get back to that in a moment.

I will often argue that reality tv has killed tv, but I am wrong.  I truly believe some of the best shows in history are on right now.  The depth of the stories and the characters on so many shows contrast the vast wasteland of watching fake lives on tv...

Here is my list of what I watch, just to give context to my thoughts today.  Actual list.

Mad Men
The Mentalist
Elementary
Sherlock
The Walking Dead
Game of Thrones

So, let us begin.

How the heck does a writer knock out anti-heroes that do what these shows have them do?  Hank Moody, Sherlock, any one of the Sons, any one of the Game of Thrones ensemble... brilliant at times, all of them. 

So wasting 66 hours is not really a waste, because it gave me a hard look at how lame any character I have ever attempted to create really is.   Darn it.

Why don't I write?  How can I compete with that brilliance?

The Shame of (not) Being a Writer

I once wrote ten pages in the lobby of a hotel I was not staying at.   I looked like I belonged there, so I did belong, and I wrote ten pages.

At that moment, I knew what it was to be a writer.  I had it all figured out.   "Sit back down where you belong" Lady Gaga once sort of said, though her song indicated high heels, and I was not about to bust those out.   But outside of the heels, sit right down and get writing,  Let the words flow and see what comes of things.  And I did.  Ten glorious pages of writing.  Certainly not great stuff, I did not write the next average novel, nor a poem that will get seventeen likes on Facebook.   But I wrote.

I went to bed that evening (not in that lobby) and as I said, I knew what it was to be a writer.  At that moment, I wondered what I would accomplish tomorrow now that I have the secret in my hands?   Armed with that knowledge I had some trouble closing the eyes.   I had the answer.  Ten pages of answer were right across the bed from me.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still feeling the rush of the previous eve and stared over at my beautiful pages, all ten of them.   Imagine if I actually sat down to write like this each day?  What magic could be cast upon the page then?  So that day passed as days tend to do, and that night I sat down to write.  

I had a good second night, bashing out five pages.  Not quality stuff at all.  Indeed, I will have to say it was bad even by bad standards.  I was reluctant to lift my pen for fear of losing my words, so any words that came to mind were dropped down on the page.   Bashing out five pages was quite literally meant.  Very few of them blended together very well, but I still knocked out five pages and that is nothing to be ashamed of.

On night three, I did not write.  I was tired.   But I was averaging five pages a day even with a break in there, so I had nothing to head my head over.  The next day was also a resting day, but I was still averaging over three pages a day.  And a moment later (metaphorically) two weeks had passed and now those ten pages were a measure of shame for me.

And I know that feeling of shame all too well.  I know the dangers of not writing yet I seem to be a master of it.   Stephen King wrote "On Writing".  I fear my book may be "On Not Writing".

What I could do if I did not make so many excuses?

We shall try to find out in the blogger's dangerous days - the slow days of summer.