I began this blog the day before National Blog Posting Month kicked in, so have posted daily ever since. It’s going to feel strange to reduce this intensity of activity here, as it’s all I’ve ever known in blogging world. Even if I had the time, I wonder whether I’d be able to keep coming up with the content.
On the other hand, I can return my attentions to my novel, which I am looking forward to. That and the short story I need to get down to go into the anthology for my writers’ group. It’s a long time since I’ve written a short story and I’m nervous. Writing posts for this has been a good lesson in concision, which does not come naturally to me, so I hope this will help.
I never stopped thinking about the novel while I was busy generating posts, and some distance has been useful. I found solutions to problems that were slowing me down, and saw how to go on with it. The world I created for the story had not yet been fixed in a particular decade, though it clearly wasn’t quite the 21st century as we know it. I’ve decided to let that slide and just write the world as it is in my head. If it turns out not to be the real world at a real time at all, then that needn’t be a problem.
I thought of posting here as a different kind of writing from the ‘creative’ kind I am usually involved in. When my father told me it felt slightly intrusive to read, a bit like opening my diary, I objected that I was writing here exactly the kinds of things that I’d never bother to put in private journal. That made me wonder… is this a kind of creative writing too? Had I created a persona for Mind and Language that is a lot like me, but not me?
If I had, it certainly wasn’t a conscious decision – there hasn’t been time for that kind of thinking, I’ve just had to write what comes every day and press ‘publish’ before I think too hard about it. On reflection, I think I am writing as me, just perhaps not that much about me.
This is probably a good thing, since I always thought of diaries as repositories for all the things that the world does not want to, or should not, hear about. My first ever diary entry as a twelve year old was a heavily coded rant about the girl at school who insisted on flirting with my heart’s desire in front me. As I recall it went on much in that vein for several years, probably descending into the murk of lovelorn adolescent poetry and intermittent self-loathing. I wouldn’t have the energy, or the requisite raging hormones, to write like that now, thank goodness.
I have other challenges preoccupying me. Do I continue the hunt for an agent for my first novel, or throw myself into another deep end: self-publishing, electronic or otherwise, and the marketing battle? No doubt I’ll report here on the sinking and swimming that results. It’s a whole year until Nablopomo starts again, and a lot can happen in that time.