
WINTER MORNING
slowly the candle flickers
in counterpoint to the ticking of the clock
the cat breathes in and out
and gently from the vents
warm air comes shushing out.(5.2.2024)
life, the universe, and a few-odd other things
WINTER MORNING
slowly the candle flickers
in counterpoint to the ticking of the clock
the cat breathes in and out
and gently from the vents
warm air comes shushing out.(5.2.2024)
“I’m not very good at that.”
“No,” said the expert, looking up from his close scrutiny of the issue. He raised the magnifying glass and peered through it at the spot on her chin. “No, you are not, are you.”
“On the other hand,” she said, trying not to feel like a lepidopterist’s specimen, “I’m also not very good at about a dozen other things. That ought to count for something, shouldn’t it?”
SPELLS
“Heddle,” she muttered. “Warp. Weft. Raddle. Warping board. Bobbin. Shuttle. Harness. Shed, reed, ratchet. Sett, castle, breast beam, cloth beam. Heddle, warp and weft.”
“Stop!” he shrieked. “Stop throwing curses at me! And put down that, that, that spell book!”
She glanced up at him with a mild, enquiring look, then closed the book in her lap with a finger pinched between its pages and turned it over to look at the spine.
In gold-imprinted letters it said THE BEGINNING WEAVER.
A fly buzzed against the window as slowly, outside, the rain dripped off the eaves.
“It’s kind of cozy,” he said, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders.
“I know,” his friend replied. “I don’t know if I can stand it much longer.”
[Cue sonorous voiceover] Previously on “So You Want to Write a Book?”: Part 1, How I got started; Part 2, Other Ways of Writing a Book; Part 3, WRITE THAT THING; Part 4, What next?; Part 5, Getting it out there. How I wrote my first book by just starting to write; how to plan a book step by step; how to actually write that book; how to edit it once it’s finished, and how to self-publish it.
So perhaps, this whole thing of writing a whole, big, fat novel is overwhelming at this point. “I’d like to,” you say, “but right now all that stuff you talked about, with outlining and writing and editing and what-not, that’s just too much.” But this “writing” thing still tugs at you…
Or you’ve gone and self-published that book of yours, the one that you’ve been dreaming of all your life. But by now the euphoria has worn off, and you don’t have another idea for another book. So you pack away your notebook and pen, you unplug your laptop, and you think, “Maybe this was a one-off…”
But hold on!
There’s so much more to being a writer than “just” writing a book.
Don’t get me wrong, writing a novel is fantastic. But it’s a big endeavour, like climbing a mountain. We don’t need to always be climbing mountains; going for a walk around the block is a perfectly valid use for our feet.
So what else could you do to live the Writer’s Life? There is lots you could do, of course, lots and lots. But let me just fish out two points, two that I’ve found valid and valuable:
1.) Small Steps, and
2.) Community.
Small Steps
I’m not going to climb a mountain anytime soon—I’m not terribly athletically inclined. But every so often I go for very short walks on my street. And by “very short” I mean, literally, ten minutes. I set the timer on my phone for five minutes, walk out the door, and when the timer goes off I turn on my heel and walk home again. Ten minutes, but I’ve walked! Outside, in the fresh air! That’s a win.
For me to do anything, it has to start with a ridiculously small step.
And it works for writing, too. Sometimes I set out to write what I call a Fragment, literally just a few lines. I’ve done it by the clock (that ten minute thing again), or by “so many lines”. I’ve set myself projects where for one month I would “do some writing” every day; as long as I put a few “writerly” words on the page, it counts (other than grocery lists, I mean). I don’t do it all the time—I go through phases with it, like with everything else. But when I do do it I enjoy it.
You might wonder what the point of that is—what’s a few lines, what’s a Fragment? You’ll never get a book out of doing that! How is that going to get you closer to your dream?
What it does is it keeps my writing muscles honed. It keeps me thinking of words to describe what I see, in real life or in my head (not infrequently one leads to the other). It keeps me in the writing groove. Most of my Fragments aren’t that spectacular, but sometimes, the little sliver of fiction that comes out of it is amusing enough that I’ve posted it here, under the tag #FridayFragment. It’s a win!
And that brings me to my other point:
Community
I enjoy sharing my #FridayFragments on this blog, because even those little slivers of fiction deserve an audience. And I love it when I get a reaction, when friends let me know they’ve responded to the little vignette I’ve drawn, when I get a (virtual) chuckle out of someone. When I’ve put my work out to my community.
The Writer’s life, like so many other creative pursuits, is a lonely life—I sit here at my computer, tapping away at the keys, all by myself… But really, I’m tied into a Writers’ Community out there. And I highly, highly recommend that. Writers’ groups, conferences, critique partners, local or regional writer’s guilds or federations or whatever they’re called, even writing events like NaNoWriMo—without them, I wouldn’t be where I am as a writer. One of the few silver linings of the Pandemic (ugh!) is that a lot of events went online, and many of them retained at least an online aspect even now. So even if you don’t have any in-person writers’ groups close to where you are, or you can’t easily leave the house, chances are there’s some online event or group you could join and make friends with other writers.
Having a community can be a tremendous boost to your writing. Knowing that my monthly Zoom group will start with a Round Robin where everyone answers the question “How’s your writing month been going?” gives me motivation to actually have “a writing month”, in other words, do at least a bit of writing work of some kind. NaNoWriMo wouldn’t be half as much fun without the community of all those other crazies who try this 50,000-words-in-a-month feat. And knowing that whatever I write, Louise Bates, my editor and critique partner extraordinaire, is waiting for it as eagerly as I am for her latest work, is a gift beyond value.
Oh, and one more thing: what I enjoy so much about some of the groups I’ve been in is that there are so many different types of writers. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, novels, experienced, brand-new—if you write anything other than grocery lists you’re welcome (and probably even those, if you do them with purpose). So don’t be shy about what “level” you’re at. If you want to write you’re a writer. Go find your tribe.
And then go write that book, or that other book, or that other other book. Or those short stories or poems or essays or fairy tales that you’ve got bubbling up inside you.
We’ll be here cheering you on.
It glittered. The corner of the basement glittered. Naila was sure of it this time. She shook her phone to turn on the flashlight and shone it into the corner. The glitter vanished. She turned the light off, and there it was again, glittering like a million tiny, faint stars gathered in the corner of her basement behind the canning shelves.
I looked at my toes, propped up on the coffee table in front of me. And looked again.
There was a small gnome hiding behind my foot.
I froze.
He peered around my big toe, then darted back to the other side. I could feel his tiny hand as he steadied himself against the side of my little toe, then his pointy cap slowly appeared, followed by his small, round face.
“Hello there!” I whispered.
He blinked his brown eyes at me.
MAGIC POTION
The first sip tasted revolting. Bitter, burnt. I made a face.
“That’s normal,” he said. “Just keep drinking, it’ll get better.”
I doubted it. The second, third, fourth, and fifth sips were no better. I put the mug back on its coaster.
“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t care how much magic is in this, I don’t think it’s for me.”
He stared at me, his blue eyes wide with astonishment.
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “Everyone likes coffee.”
She had never been quite sure what to make of it. There it sat, on her kitchen table, sparkling up at her in its silent fashion.
“It sure is ugly,” she remarked to the cat, who went on cleaning his back end as if he didn’t care one bit. Which he didn’t.
“I mean, where is it coming from?” she continued. “Every fifth of the month, there it is. On the kitchen table. Shining and sparkling and glittering and, and—just sitting there. I mean, what is it?”
PS: No, I don’t know what it is, either. Do you?
They came around the corner, and there it was in front of them. The blossom, enormous like a vast bowl, more than six men could span. The soft pink of the petals had a velvet sheen to it; in the centre, the golden richness of the stamens beckoned.
“The Giant Water Lily of Medulisan!” Mardrom breathed, once again exercising his proclivity for stating the obvious.