Washed Up – Part 5
Changes are a constant when you’re trying to break into the writing scene. If you’re anything like me, you’ve got at least one job already, possibly two. You’ve got a family and all that entails. In short: you’re busy being an adult.
Then you throw writing into the mix, and any free time you thought you had is now truly slain. Want a few minutes to yourself prior to bed? Too bad, you’re writing. Those minutes you crammed into the corner playing some video games? Too bad, you’re writing. Some of your precious reading time? Too bad. Writing. In the end, I think this is what so many authors crash into, and fail to try and work around: the inescapable, implacable and immobile monolithic amount of time that writing requires. Every day, or every other day if you’re me, you must feed the fires of your writing. There is no substitute for it. No exchanges. You must, in the words of Jim Butcher, put your butt in that chair and write. Without reservation, hesitation, or excuse, you must hold yourself accountable.
The reality is that you can’t be a writer if you’re not willing to write. And when you aren’t getting paid, or when your releases aren’t going anywhere, or when you write a blog for nearly two years and can’t crest thirty readers a day, you feel like quitting. You feel that the deck is stacked against you, and that no matter how you struggle you’ll never get anywhere. So why bother right?
Well you should bother. Do you know how many authors simply waltzed onto the scene, who do not have to put any work into churning out one masterpiece after another? Virtually zero. J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter book one on freaking napkins. NAPKINS, people. While taking care of her baby, BY HERSELF, post-divorce. Harry Potter, on cocktail napkins. Yeah. All of us, every single one, struggle. Writing is a challenge, no matter how good you are at it. No matter how long you’ve been doing it.
You’re failures don’t make you worse than other authors: they make you more and more like them. So don’t quit, and be willing to keep failing.
It’s the only way writing works.
Washed Up – Part 5
Flight Lieutenant Abigail Weathers sat outside the thin mylar tent which she had erected on the springy gray plant-life which coated everything her eyes could see. She had avoided driving the spikes directly through the plant matter, instead gently threading them down to the mulch-like loam below. While the Dendrobite had moved around upon it without care, she noticed how the boulder-like creature’s feet were designed to keep the plants intact despite its great weight. She would prudently follow its lead. Besides, the wind hadn’t really picked up and unless things changed drastically, she doubted the slightly questionable anchorage would be an issue.
The Dendrobite before her had continued to use an arm as a proxy for human head gestures. It was getting rather good, and as the day darkened to twilight, it continued learning and adapting from her spoken communications as well as the mental ones. The mental communications had improved dramatically, for which Abigail and her stomach both thanked the creature. The Dendrobite had learned that sending over an image could convey meaning without the strain of attempting to form more direct communication. The human brain was remarkable at filling in the gaps and working with incomplete information to form a complete picture, so the Dendrobite had simply used what already worked. It had the dual purpose of forcing Abigail to ask questions for clarification. It learned with every moment it communicated, and the sharpening clarity of the head/hand substitute over a scant few hours filled Abigail with unexpected wonder. She laughed at the Dendrobite, who had just conveyed quizzical puzzlement with use of claw and hand in a way that was both unexpected and wholly convincing. The Dendrobite became agitated, large slab face and recessed glowing eyes turning to scan the horizon for whatever threat had caused Abigail to sound the alarm.
“No! No, I was not crying for help or signaling alarm. I’m sorry. You had asked about humor, and then proceeded to use a head gesture which was extremely ironic given the topic under discussion. I couldn’t help myself. Laughter is an expression of joy or happiness.” The words were accompanied by mollifying gestures, and the Dendrobite settled back down to the semi-folded sitting position which it had taken outside her tent.
As it recovered, the quizzical tilt returned, and a slightly abashed image of a young boy with his hand in a cookie jar formed. Abigail laughed even harder, and the Dendrobite pantomimed a sure sign of pleasure that it had understood what she meant.
With the abruptness of a lightning strike, the eyes ceased their whirring cadence. The creature halted with them, going from the slightly bobbing joyous motions to rigid stillness. Any sense of curious nature, any hints of personality and desire to learn vanished. It no longer attempted to ceaselessly scan everything it could see, weighing and assessing the purpose of each instrument and device that Abigail tore down or built up. The almost constant stream of mental images ceased, and as the heartbeats drew into long breaths, the eyes slowly dimmed. They grew darker and darker, taking on a blood orange cast as their weight began boring through Abigail’s eyes and into her brain.
She was as transfixed as she had been when the Dendrobite had charged her. She could not look away, for she could not remember that she had the ability to do so. She couldn’t feel her knees as she slumped to the ground, or the rest of her body as she toppled onto her side, gaze still skewered upon the deep orange glow that had replaced the bright blue-white. Her breath came shallow and fast, but she barely registered the panicked reactions of her body for all sense of self had left that frail shell.
She was falling, her thoughts and experiences draining through the floor of her mind like water through a sieve. There was nothing around her, no boundaries or body that she could use to orient her identity. Her id had contracted into a defensive ball, and all of her collected memories and prejudices were now rocketing down an endless shaft towards… something. After a lifetime played over the space of a heartbeat, her consciousness came to a crushing halt. Pain came then, an agony like a true fall might have played out yet blasted through all of her being simultaneously. She screamed, though she had no mouth. She tried to curl her thoughts even tighter, throwing up hands she did not possess to ward off blows she could never hope to defend against.
“Well, well” boomed a voice which shook her like a terrier breaking a rat “something unexpected at last! I had begun to lose hope.”
To be continued…
Rockfully,
The Unsheathed Quill
