I was planning on doing a post a week and then went on vacation and shot that all to hell. But, neglected blog withstanding, it was pretty successful creatively. I took over 500 pictures. I got some reading done. I worked on my goddamn novel. Words were written, whole pages of them. My poor empty notebook is slightly less empty.
I was in Maine, where my novel is set so it was a bit of a research trip for me, as much as taking pictures of lobster traps is research. (It is relevant to Things.) But being in the place where I’m making my characters act and dance was helpful. I was on top of Pigeon Hill where I could see a thick fog rolling over the islands out in the ocean. It looked so cool that I had to write about it, just for a taste of the local flavor, so that I don’t get taken to task by people who actually live and work there. I’m not a tourist, I swear!
It took me a couple days to actually force myself to sit down and write because… it’s fog. What’s there to write about? Well, many notebook pages and a few plot points later, turns out there’s a lot.
That’s usually what happens to me but I still hold myself back, waiting for something concrete to write about, which never comes. Or, even more pathetic, I have the scenes in my head but they’re tent-pole pieces and just too daunting to start now. But sometimes I get the right sentence in my head, just the perfect turn of phrase and I have to write it down because it’s going to be gone in seconds. And then I just keep going.
Intellectually, I know that I just need to start and the words will come but the hardest part is just picking up that pen.
Now I just need to get over feeling like a douche every time I say “my novel.”