I blinked and everyone got old.
I lived and breathed and went about my business, and my children were grown.
The ones to whom I was a child become fragile; time become a more bitter enemy with each passing day.
It's something that has been on my mind quite a bit lately.
I think the biggest difference between being a thirty-something and being a forty-something is that the next ones up the line from you-the aunts, uncles, parents, and possibly grandparents-are getting close to check out time. It makes one start to think, for the first time in any sort of real way, that when this group passes the next one up...is us.
 Me.
 My most immediate loved ones.
Or, put another way, all the truths that were communicated to us when we were younger, and were lost upon us in our youth, become more and more real. Time does fly. Years do slip away. No thing lasts forever. No one lasts forever. To paraphrase Neil Gaiman's Death (which would be my choice of Reaper, if ever I was given one), that is what gives them value.
It's just a shame that sometimes we don't recognize that value until after it is too late to add to it.
If it's been awhile since you told the ones who matter that you loved them, now might be a good time to start.
:/

How the hell does it work that I can sit down in front of a blank Word document and write thirty pages on a new story, and yet sit down in front of this menacing blog screen and not be able to think of a single word to say? I believe so far I'm averaging a post a year, which is preposterous. Why this should be a mental block, I don't know...but it's got me thinking.

It's a drug, I think. Or at least my drug. I have precious little time to write for pleasure, and when I do have time, it often ends up being wasted doing something else. But no matter what, given enough time, I come creeping back. It's the heart-clutching opiate; it's the acrid green smell of marijuana, it's the iron headband of caffeine withdrawal. When it's time to write, I don't even try to resist anymore.

What  to write? I don't even know. I've never tried a comedy before. I'm not sure I could do it. All the Terry Pratchetts and Douglas Adams and even Neil Gaimans frighten me away; whisper to me that even trying would be a fool's errand.

But maybe that's the point of the writing addiction. It's not a fool's errand. It is an end unto itself. I think that lots of people who should be writing never end up writing because they ask themselves "Why? Why should I do this? What would I gain by it? How would it advance me? What if it's not successful?"

Who gives a fuck if it's successful or not?! I think the best approach is to look at the creative process (whether it's writing or designing or painting or chiseling a damn rock into something beautiful) as an end unto itself. It's the writing that ultimately satisfies; I have to believe that that above all things is what makes successful writers keep writing. It's not that they need the money; the best of them are set for life. Even the mediocre ones can eke out a living. It's the fact that no matter how successful, or NOT successful, the process of writing for these people IS the end. It IS the high. It IS the gratification. No matter how many people praise it, no  matter how many books are sold, no matter how many copies you sign-it's the process that matters at the end of the day. It's the process that calls us back, like the dealer in the shadows, to feel that thrill, to hit that high one.more.time.
Every time.

Began proofing the latest draft of The Dream of Apeiron today, after having walked away from the project for a few years. Running a second game in the world that I created inspired me to return to the book once more. Kericen and its denizens will always hold a special place in my heart, and I hope to complete drafting on the first three novels soon, so that I can share that joy.

Started work today on a story that I will be co-writing with my good friend Fred Shirley. The original concept was his, I'm just lending a hand with the bad guys. I have a working draft of the first two scenes, and I know what I want to happen, but as always, it's the getting from here to there that is the tough bit.
As an aside, I have often found that even if I have only the vaguest of ideas, if I just start working, the ideas will come. The stories want to be written, I just have to be willing.

Or perhaps I'm mad as a hatter.

So, here we are once more. This blog laid dormant for two years, but now seemed a good time to shake off the dust and begin again. This blog wants to be about writing, and all the various aches and pains that usually accompany it, but gerrymandering will occur. Which is fine. Many a great work sneaked in while its creator was busy trying to do something else, and who knows what interesting topics we might run into?

One question that I sometimes ponder is whether (or to what degree) writing is an organic process, or perhaps naturally occurring in one individual more so than another? Are writers born? I think so. I often say that I create because I can't NOT create. Writing for me is like a tempest of the mind, that gives no respite until relief is found in the creative process. The process must be similar for others, I would imagine.

One brief plug: storywrite.com  is a great place to read works from amateur authors. My handle on that site is JoefromBelow.

More to come later as new ideas take shape.
Ta!