Trouble with Apocalypse Nation today. That’s the title of my zombie book, by the way. Possible reasons:
The muse is not just a myth. She is not with me today.
I’m struggling with the subject matter and my identity as a writer (whatever that means) and whether or not I can be literary and have fun, too.
The end seems like a long way off and maybe too far.
Short stories are more fun, but no one wants them. C’mon ‘Merica… learn to like the short story.
I’m making my undead story too complicated. Can’t I just write about brains and stuff? How come I have to have business and politics and religion in there too? Give your characters some guns, let them go crazy. Enough with trying to figure out who they “are.” They are zombie killers, period. Right?
They aren’t just zombie killers. I want to like them. Even the zombies. I want to like them too. Grrrrr.
I hate calling them zombies. In the book, they’re never called zombies, by the way. Of course, in Part three, which I haven’t got to writing yet, the Haitians will explain the difference between zombies and what I’ve created. I’m actually looking forward to writing the Haitian characters. Kick ass zombie-hunters, I think.
I wish I could write the Haitian scenes now. But I’ve never been able to write out of order. I have to wait till I get to them. Boooooooo!
Normal ups and downs of writing. I spent six months starting and restarting the fourth part of The Aurora Project. Finally, it clicked and I wrote the damn thing. Anyone out there know an agent or editor that wants to look at a very cool novel of apocalypse and renewal that covers six thousand years?
Too much world. One of the reasons I’m the writer I am and not the writer I imagined myself to be is that I’ve never been willing to put the writing first. There’s simply too many important things taking up space and an unwillingness on my part to ignore those things. Family. Community. Livelihood. I’m thinking more about those things today.
Wondering if zombies are a worthy subject. It sounds snooty, I know, but zombies, really? The subject is so very different than anything I’ve written before. Am I writing it simply because I want to buy a private island? I’m only half joking when I mention private islands. I tried to get James Patterson to give me one of his, but he’s greedy. It was a small island, too. Hardly any trees. But nooooooo….
Maybe it’s just too humid to write?
Fear of contracting bedbugs?
Not enough peanut butter in daily intake?
Always with the stupid writerly doubt?
Stupid writerly doubt! Hate it so much (shakes fist).
Writing is stupid anyway.
The future is here. Writing is dead.
What? Shut up and write.