QueerlyWritten

Writing by che moleman on Flickr.

2012 The year of writing as though my hair were on fire. It’s begun. Hours after I made my goal to write 3 hours a day or more I fell asleep upright in my chair.

Sabotage would be much easier to kill if it weren’t self generated. I woke up this afternoon and threw myself out of the house with my laptop disguised in a bag within a bag and wrote for an hour and a half at Peets and have 3,000 words and change in hand. An hour and 1/2 to go to make my goal real. So of course I am blogging.

Being at home means the internet is right here. So is the television, music, dirty dishes, an edgy needy old Siamese who is my anti-muse. He’s as jealous of my writing as any of my lovers has ever been and wants to sit on my lap, or my chest, or perch on my shoulder like a giant parrot.

So I write. I’ll likely bore you silly with my blogging to avoid the fiction that’s buzzing in my head annoyed that I’ve stopped. Characters continue along without me, scheming, dreaming and making alliances.

This book I’m writing has a surplus of crows and characters as moody as the birds. I have ridiculously pledged to have 15 pages ready for a talented group of writers in a new writing workshop called Dive Deep with Jen Cross and Writing Ourselves Whole. It’s absolutely terrifying this commitment, this agreement I’ve made to make public writing that isn’t ready to be read. It makes my heart beat too fast and my palms sweaty. Makes me want to have a glass of wine and another cigarette. Nothing like terror to sit on your shoulder like a giant Siamese weighing down one of your typing arms and frightening the muse away.