Do These Words Count?

These days, I can't be arsed to write. The creative juices aren't dried up (that sounds really wrong). In fact, I come up with wonderful ideas for novels and short stories all the time. It's the actual act of sitting down at my computer and hammering out a few thousand words that seems so tedious right now. 

The only writing I've been doing are these posts. Do they count? Since January, I've published at least a hundred thousand. I'm guessing. I really can't be certain how many words I've actually typed out here. More, maybe? Certainly not less. We are over halfway through the year, which means I'd only have to average five hundred words a day in order to make a hundred thousand of them. Now, some of my posts aren't very wordy, but I have been known to get ranty, or wordy. Yeah, wordy. It sounds far more pleasing to my ear. 

Anyhow, they say you need to make room for what you love. There's one of those motivational Facebook posts everyone is sharing and no one is following. Something along the lines of doing the thing you love for at least fifteen minutes every day. The conclusion being you won't believe how life-changing only fifteen minutes a day can be. 

So, I love writing. Creating is exciting for me. And when I set out to do a blog-a-day for a year, I thought it would be a great way to stick to writing every day. This was supposed to be my fifteen minutes, I guess. Except, these take way longer than fifteen minutes. But the thought was there. This was me making room for what I love. 

The problem is, most of all my other writing has ground to halt. This makes me wonder, has this blog-a-day for a year been detrimental to my other more creative writing? Is making time for blogging cutting into me penning the next great Canadian masterpiece? I like to think I have it in me to write more than a blog a day. There was a time when I was churning out books every other month. Ah, the good old days when I used to write at work. 

There are excuses. It's been a less than stellar year. I'm moving. The job takes up a lot of my time. I'm working hard to keep my relationship with the Sidekick healthy. Two dogs are more time consuming. I've been trying to be more healthy and active. 

But it really comes down to inspiration. I suppose I am uninspired lately. And tired.

So, tell me these words count, because if not I'm going to be really displeased. 

Lost The Plot

So, I started writing this short story for a collection called 'Mermaids' for Pankhearst. I was super stoked about it, but when I got about halfway through, I realized the plot wasn't going to work. It simply didn't generate the feeling I wanted it too. Instead of a gritty, youthful vibe, it gave off a more adventure Nancy Drew tone, which is nice, but didn't really work for me, or the anthology it was going into.

What did I do? I stopped writing, put it to the side, and have been obsessing over it ever since. I have literally wracked my brain over what to do with the story. I thought to myself, surely I can come up with another plot to work with these amazing characters and crazy world.

Apparently not. It's been sitting for weeks. And I've tried so hard to develop it into something I can share with the editor of the project, but it's just embarrassing. Which is why I am going to stop altogether and put it away. It's not working and it isn't worth me stressing over. Besides, I feel terrible leaving a beautiful and talented hanging in the balance, wondering when I am going to deliver.

Of course, as soon as I officially sign off the project inspiration will strike. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

Sigh.

Master of Macabre

Today is Edgar Allan Poe's birthday. As some of you may know, I believe in celebrating births, especially of creatures so near and dear to my heart.

This writer of the weird. Maker of mystery. Master of the Macabre. Well, he's a special sort of somebody.

In a world where there are two sorts of people, those trying to fit in and those trying to stand out, we often forget the forefathers of going against the grain. Born in 1809, one must admit, this gentleman is truly one of a kind. Though his work is saturated with loss, forlorn hearts, and a darkness not even a floodlight could dissipate, he himself is deeply loved by many. And, despite the attempts of his rival Rufus Wilmot Griswold who worked diligently to ruin Poe's reputation after he died, Edgar remains one of the most shared and celebrated poets of all time.  

Even his signature is a delight:

I could certainly detail out his life here. His stint in the military. His marriage to thirteen year old Virginia, who happened to be his cousin. His interest in cryptography. But you can read all about it in several books. Here, today, I will simply say, he is by far one of my most favourite people to have ever roamed this earth.

Aren't we lucky to be able to indulge in his legacy of poems and stories?

There is beauty in the darkness. Beauty in the oddities. A simple beauty in the macabre. The morbid. The grim. The ghastly.

And those who can show you that beauty, like Poe, are truly artists. Wielders of the Weird. Servants of the Strange.

They inspire me.