*Author’s note: Beware of rant.*
I have had one. Not planned or anything, believe it or not. Well, maybe it was planned. That is to say I did have one planned. A while back, I think. Pretty sure I said I was going to take the month of August off. Sort of. I was still writing when I really shouldn’t have been. But, I succeeded in that the story was split, rewritten and written again. I gained perspective and, joining the first story was another Steampunk story and a few shorts.
I was on a roll.
Now, however, all of the above lie on my iPad, given up for old Netflix episodes of Dr. Who and long days of stagnation waiting for the movers to come or busy days of cleaning so the old landlord can sell his house.
The same house that should really be gutted and completely remodeled. It’s age is showing.
I HATE moving. Absolutely. Indefinitely and forever. Hate. It.
Which is why, once I find a job with a sufficient pay to cover my bills, I will never move again. Ever. I’ve done it my entire life. I think I deserve at least a little stability. To be fair, being a military brat and moving around so much, I’ve seen more of the world that anyone else in their normal life will never see, but I’ve also never had a place to call home. My mother is a roving soul, and by proxy, so are my sister and I.
Which isn’t a bad thing. I’m just irritated that the hiatus was so sudden and strangely demanding. There’s a lot of work that goes into moving one house to another and then packing up the rest of the first house to be shipped back to the States. Not to mention all of the in-between running to get furniture and equipment for the new house so that my sister and I can get on with our lives after mum and dad leave England for Oklahoma. In-between that is the dog. Who, poor thing, knows something is going on but isn’t quite sure what. Long story short? Maybe a paragraph of writing has taken place. And not even a very good paragraph. Well, maybe it is. I haven’t taken the time to go back and reread what I’ve written to carry on with the story.
And, to be honest. I’m not entirely sure where I’m going with this blog post. It amazed me that I hadn’t updated in around a month, and I kept telling myself I need to update with something deep and meaningful. Maybe I would do another ‘Let’s Talk About—‘ post where I get to extrapolate on one subject or another and tie it back to writing in a witty way that would make even me smile after I went back a read it through to make sure I didn’t make any errors and that I said what I wanted too.
Yeah. Obviously that didn’t happen. Instead you guys get to read about me complaining that moving sucks. Which, has absolutely nothing to do with writing.
Or does it?
Writers get into a routine. We have certain things that spark creativity, or certain places that we like to write in and go all twitchy when our so proclaimed table or booth has been suddenly occupied. Some writers deal with change well. After a few minor adjustments they can carry on writing as if that trucker bastard with the dingy, dirty cap with what I hope to God is beer stains on the white bit where the stupid anecdote is written, has occupied the booth or table. No problem headphones and good music can’t fix. And coffee. Lots of coffee.
I am not one of those writers.
I’m picky that way. I’ll never say it, but God help you if you take my goddamned table. That’s MY goddamned table!
I do not handle change well. That isn’t to say I can’t handle it, I can, it just takes me more time than usual to get used to the idea. I never had a big issue with change before. It used to be that I could sleep anywhere because of necessity (Navy) now, I have conditions by which I can sleep. Travelling? Never a big deal before. Now I actually have a sensitive stomach and am more prone to venti cups of chai and one or two little meals rather than big dinners to satisfy my hunger than go through the stomachache of eating foreign foods that may or may not be too heavy. Same thing with writing. It used to be when I could find a spare moment or a scrap of paper whilst I was on watch. Making sure no one was looking and doing a quick scan of the horizon to ensure that I’d called in everything I needed to call in, I would jot down the idea in my head on whatever I had on hand just so I had it. Keeping it for later use, obviously.
Oh God. Well, in the old house I had a kitchen table and chair that I would do most of my writing. Naturally, my creativity demands that I have one in the new house. I don’t have one. Stuffy me says that it just won’t do, I HAVE to have a kitchen table and chair. Never mind that we can’t fit it in the small kitchen. Has to be there. I also HAVE to have my iPad keyboard or no writing will get done today.
Well, I forgot it.
You don’t want to be a writer!
It’s so much easier to watch Dr. Who than deal with the voices in my head.
I suppose I did have a fear about a hiatus. I was scared that all of the ideas would drop off. Suddenly my creativity would be gone just as quickly as it came and I would never write again. Silly thought, that, but on that I had nonetheless. Happily it’s proved untrue. Once I realised that I hadn’t written in so long, my brain kickstarted. It’s a sluggish start, but the ideas are still there, simmering on the backburner. I’ve also come to realise that writing is how I define myself. ‘Artist’ is broad, and I am that, but without writing I’m not a person. The job I do; it’s a pain in the arse and I hate it more often than I enjoy it, fulfills a part of me that needs to feel like I’m doing something to earn a paycheck, and that selfish bit of me that enjoys it when people rave about how nice something was (yes, I did decorate it. Yes, I was the one setting up your event), writing defines me. Writing is who I am. I’ve lived vicariously through books since I was a kid, I continue to live the adventures in my head to this day.
Take the writing away and I might just lose something that makes up my core personality.
Besides, it’s not as if I wasn’t workin whilst on this hiatus. If anything I have been more busy in this last month than I have in a long time. Moving, the Air Force Ball, more moving. The four days I was supposed to have off to go do something with the family turned into four days of moving, watching the dog, and Dr. Who. As well as introspection. Not necessarily on the stories, for once I actually know where a few of them are going and not obsessing about Blood on the Quarter, but on myself and certain situations that are presented.
One of which has to do with a member of the opposite sex. And a romantic interest. Dating.
These things I am not good at.