Two months, just like that

Wow, hey. Zips by, doesn’t it? I’ve been all too aware of the passing days, though not within the context of, “I haven’t blogged in two months”, and more the general sense of time whirling by, oblivious to the human experience. Time is a fascinating illusion; the measurement of movement and change, especially when one can imagine that nothing is changing at all, and still observe the all too obvious differences between “then” and “now”.

Life has been what it is. The down parts which we spend half our effort trying to avoid still come knocking. Upheaval is part of that change which I note, but also blurs together in the apparent sea of sameness. We still get up each day. Eat, shower, work, sleep. The little things in between. Seeing the same faces, having close approximations of the same conversation within each encounter. Our greetings are universal. Sometimes I answer differently just to see the expression on a person’s face register that they must think about my reply, rather than it being the expected generalisation. Sometimes, I see how glad they are for a variation, themselves. Sometimes, they are busy, and it was a cursory exchange, and they don’t really want to have to think about something new. Ah, but that’s people-watching for you.

And as a counter to the troughs, there are the bright points of laughter and friendship; the good news instead of bad; the moments of brilliant entertainment which enrich our lives. Going away for short trips to places I like with people I love. Seeing animals, walking in the rain, making children giggle. Spending hours talking, seeing the obvious fruits of your labour, and especially, the much-appreciated acknowledgement of others for what you do. Finding things worth reading, worth watching, worth playing. Even the quiet times of being alone where thoughts are free to bubble over faster than you can possibly record them, even though you’re certain they are important and need to be collected for future uses.

Two months. We saved a kitten from a storm, and said goodbye to some family members. I’ve read a whole lot of books, and written nearly a third of another. I have determined that I can probably do a lot more than I believe of myself, but it’s finding the time and effort that’s the real trouble. I like November and the positivity and companionship it brings out in so many of my writer friends (thanks to NaNoWriMo). I’m especially enjoying building some expertise on the “behind the scenes” aspects in releasing books.

Oh, yes. I’m still around. Two months in a long time, but really, it’s just the blink of an eye.

~A

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Are We There Yet?

I feel like the stereotypical child in the backseat of the car, whining incessantly at the people in control. Of course, when I actually was much younger and we drove around a lot, I didn’t have the same sense of impatience displayed by others. Driving places is neat, and I was capable of entertaining myself. For instance, counting as high as I could. With a tenacious child enthused about a challenge, that will pass the time on a long trip.

But now I’m older, and my proverbial car ride is the endless sense of completing a novel. I’m impatient. I look at the days flying by, I wonder how I can still possibly be working on the same project. The Damning Moths approaches a full year since beginning, June 22nd. Minor interruptions are both embraced and repelled. Something new! Something distracting! Oh, heavens, something to lengthen the time it’s already taken me to get this far.

I’m inspired by those who have been releasing books for a number of years and have the practice down to an art. They write fast, edit fast, move on, release another, start again. I know it’s an experience thing; I’ll get to that point some day. I’m looking forward to it like no one’s business. But I can’t help those feelings of wanting to already be at that stage, to be so sure-footed in my work.

I don’t really second-guess myself too much. There are some instances where I’m a victim of my own negativity, of course, but I still persevere. It’s just the length of time. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Why aren’t we there yet?

On one hand, it seems like the last few chapters shouldn’t take me much longer. I’m nearly at the end. I can almost reach out and brush my fingertips against the finish line. But then there’s the flipside, where it’s taken me this long to reach the point I have. I wonder if life will continue to be so busy that I only get stolen moments to focus on my story.

Of course, it won’t end there! The cover is coming along nicely, the ISBNs are organised, and I have a ready stack of resources at hand for all the other little in-between bits which come with releasing a novel. So, yes, I’m eager to be done, but it will just take on a whole new form once the book is out in the world. I guess, in that regard, we’re never really “there yet”, it’s all just another phase of being an author.

~A