With the conspiracy over, back to the mystery…

Book One of the Cocktail Mysteries: The Case of Alfred Smyth Concord

Update: The writer is currently stuck trying to do the first draft of a pivotal scene. He’s so stuck, he’s started plotting book two – The Case of Being Suited. Pictures of the a real location have been taken for fictional murder scene, characters have taken shape, hell there is even a first pass at the entire plot.

What’s wrong of course is the first book isn’t done. So how can there be a second one? There can’t. It’s just procrastination. We all know this. Today we talk about getting through the scene you don’t want to write.

First of all I’m a part-time writer at best. I work full time and have an addiction to Coffee shops, which normally is my goto solution for writing. Plop the butt in a chair, put on some concentration music, and write. But the coffee shop I want to go to, is only doing take out.

Secondly, I’m really good at avoiding something. My ability to justify almost anything is legendary. Don’t take my word for it. Look at when this blog started, is there a finished submitted manuscript yet? How many should there be? (at least 3)

Third, COVID. Apparently you can blame everything on COVID. Except in this case, you can’t. I’m home a lot more with more free time on my hands and there are no good MMO’s out there to play. I’m so desperate to avoid writing this scene I started playing a first person shooter. I’ve never played a first person shooter, in my entire life…ever…that’s almost 61 years. Yes I know there weren’t video games when I grew up. And TV’s were coal powered, blah, blah, blah…

What to do? What techniques are there to get through this? That’s what we’re going to investigate. What am I going to do?

Ask someone. (Email sent, waiting a reply.)

This isn’t a new problem. Writer’s I believe have struggled with this since time immerobale.

As Stephen King wrote in The Washington Post in 2006:

“There may be a stretch of weeks or months when it doesn’t come at all; this is called writer’s block. Some writers in the throes of writer’s block think their muses have died, but I don’t think that happens often; I think what happens is that the writers themselves sow the edges of their clearing with poison bait to keep their muses away, often without knowing they are doing it.”

In his book On Writing, he described one of the few times in his life he suffered from writer’s block. He was in college, and decided not to present his new novel Sword in the Darkness to the class. This led to a four-month period of not writing, drinking beer, and watching soap operas.

The King article is a good read. As is his book On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft. I heartily recommend reading it. A writer friend of mine tries to re-read it yearly.

Where does that leave us with the unwritten scene? Exactly where we started, but, we’ve taken some steps:

  1. Read an article by Stephen King. What poison have I laid around that prevents from muse coming to me?
  2. Sent an email asking a writing coach for her thoughts.

The next blog will talk about the me getting rid of the poison that surrounds me and prevents my muse from coming by for a chat.

Small steps are still steps.

Be Well…dcd

Argh! My Muse is closed!

We all have muses. At least I believe we do. For me, and no one, absolutely no one who knows me should be surprised to discover my primary muse is the coffee shop.

And mine is closed.

I’m at the point now where I have to face the fact of moving my muse. How does one move a muse? One doesn’t.

The simple fact is writing is a habit. And like most habits, its tied to locations, triggers honed after years of development to allow us to get work done. The work of writing.

Secretly I’ve hoped the closure will be ‘one more week’. Just one more week and it’ll be open, and I can sit a table a write. Oh the glory of it. I can feel the seat, see the smiles, and the typing. The screen with words magically appearing. The best words, all the words, the words my story. (Yes I know the prepositions will still be missing…now be quiet).

The first taste of a pour-over coffee, closing my eyes and the brief moment of transcendent bliss. A slight inhale of breath with a slow exhale, a gentle smile of, dare I say it, happiness. The pause and then writing about Dyson Kinton and her crew trying to save the Lunar Empire from machinations of the Martian Marines. Or maybe it will be the completion of The Cocktail Mysteries Book One: The Case of Jonathan Smythe Concord, esq. where James discovers…

Perhaps I’ll return to Markaz, the first city where magic is discovered. Maybe we’ll visit Jorunn and Othin as they strive to survive being a channeler and forge who can wield all four elemental magics.

Maybe it will Tanner Kindly, trying to save the universe from falling into another diaspora by visiting retribution as the arm of vengeance for the Trifecta.

But I don’t have a muse, I’m not able to dive into the habit of writing. I’m in the habit of dreaming. Day-dreaming, wishing, longing for the return. The return of a table, a coffee and writing. The state of writing in dribs and drabs.

In case you haven’t identified what this rambling blog is about, its wallowing. And it’s not as bad as I make it out to be. I’ve actually gotten quite a lot done on the Cocktail Mysteries. But I long for a routine to make me more productive.

Becoming mindful of lessons learned and write. Your muse, my muse, will find its way to you, wherever, whenever you are.

Be Well…dcd

Routine and Writer and a lack of quotation marks.

She explained juggling was simple. He laughed, watching her keep five balls in the air. They fell like a fountain, cascading perfectly into her hand. Cascading, like her hair, her laughter. He loved his muse.

Inhaling her presence of wonder, her every word kept him in rap attention. A juggler, only catches one ball at a time, and throws one ball at time she said. You can catch one ball at a time. You can throw one ball at a time.

Tile Apr-2019

She threw him one ball, startled, he dropped it. A giggle escaped her lips. Still maintaining the balls in the air she knelt and picked it up.

Now you are ready? Try again, and she tossed the ball he caught it. They smiled. Next time use one hand, she chided him. She threw him another ball, but his hands were full, he dropped the first one and missed the second one.

Silly, juggling is throwing the balls up, not down. Again she picked up both balls. All the while juggling. He knew not to ask where all the balls were coming from. Muse’s were magic, and one did not ask such questions, lest the Muse leave.

He dropped the balls again. She took a deep breath, a wry smile crossing her face. She stopped juggling and the balls disappeared. One ball in her hand she tossed it to him. He caught it and tossed it back.

She didn’t throw it back. Instead, her eyes, the pools of his inspiration looked at him. Now you play catch, with yourself. First with two hands, then with one. Soon it will be routine and you will write regularly.

Write? I thought we were talking about juggling?

My silly human, what ever gave you that idea, this is a blog about writing.

Be Well…dcd