smaller — and, at this distance, indecipherable — shapes. Nothing about it triggers any kind of recall in the woman’s mind. Whatever this place is, it is just as much a mystery to her as… everything else.
Now free from the terror of the chase, the unnerving matter of the woman’s missing memory returns to top of mind. Though every inch of her body feels ready to sink into the soil itself, the woman pushes herself upright, her eyes darting this way and that — though what it is she seeks, not even she knows.
Jo Henderson hasn’t been back to her hometown of Leander, Michigan, in sixteen years, and the last person she expects to meet there is her childhood best friend — who has aged very well. Ezra Teller has grown into a handsome and successful bartender who seems just as excited to see her as she is to see him, and they quickly make a date. But things get complicated when her father, the town sheriff, never comes back from investigating a disturbance at Ezra’s bar, and soon evidence surfaces that Ezra himself may have been involved. Can she trust Ezra to help her find her father — before it’s too late?
Hello friends and welcome to another workloaded week of writing.
It’s back to real life this week after a holiday that I really did try to work through, yet, alas, uh, didn’t. Which means I’ve got plenty to do this week (isn’t that every week?). At least I won’t be bored, right?
Something I have sort of been struggling with of late is focusing. I can’t seem to just sit down and complete a task from start to finish. If my goal is to write 1000 words for the day, I might knock out 250 in ten minutes, feel overly proud of myself, and then decide that since those first 250 were so easy I’ll just get to the rest later. Because there is always something else I need to do that needs my attention more. Which inevitably gets interrupted by the next thing. And so on. Eventually I end up looking at my planner at the end of the day with five or six half completed tasks.
There are times when I can look at that and say, well at least I got something done. Times when my kids are sick and dishes are piling up in the sink and my partner is working late and I’ve got bills to pay and only five minutes’ peace.
But after a nice long holiday weekend in which I did absolutely nothing productive (unless playing the new Pokémon counts), now is not one of those aforementioned times.
So today, and for the rest of the week I hope, the plan is to sharpen my focus. Complete my daily tasks, one at a time, until I run out of time. Will there still be distractions? Of course. Will I still be pulled away from my pages by something infinitely more urgent? Probably. But it is up to me to return to the task at hand in those instances. And it is definitely up to me not to create new interruptions where there weren’t any before.
Hello friends and welcome to another winged week of writing.
Friends, I am in a great mood this morning. I’m not really sure why. Maybe it’s because the kids are on Thanksgiving break which means I got an extra twenty minutes to lay in bed. Maybe it’s because I know I have fried turkey and baked three cheese macaroni and cheese to look forward to in a few days. Maybe it’s because for the first time in weeks I feel confident again in my writing.
I don’t know. But I am going to take advantage of it.
Last week I had a lot of success with posting everyday, some of which was fiction content. I hope to continue on that this week while getting better about getting my words down. A big ask, I know, with the holiday and all but I feel really… clear. I don’t know if last week was an eye opener or what, but I just feel really self assured that I can do all these things.
The other, standing back with an expression of distaste, is the second speaker, hardly more than a boy. He has a youthful, carefree (or careless) mien about him that is marred by an ugly blackened scar that runs the length of his otherwise handsome face.
Almost directly overhead, the woman notes next, stands a rusted, moss-overgrown gate — the entrance to the walled city she’d espied during her flight from the creatures. Demons the men had called them. Tied to it, rustling slightly in the wind, is a triangular shaped purple flag. Its emblem is a silver spire surrounded by nine
Hello friends and welcome to another habitual edition of Just Another Struggling Writer. I’m just another struggling writer.
Write every day. We’ve all heard that age old refrain, haven’t we? The idea that, if we want to be successful writers, we must practice our craft every single day. And, on its face, the suggestion seems sound. Musicians probably play their instrument every day, runners likely go for at least a jog every day, right? (Caveat: I am neither a musician nor a runner so I don’t actually know.) So, why shouldn’t we writers do something similar?
Well, first of all, lets address the fact that writing advice (much like any advice on any creative endeavor) is not one size fits all. For some writers, the chronically ill or disabled for example, the poor and working multiple jobs for another, getting one uninterrupted hour of writing a week might be cause for celebration. Some others might get their best creative work done in binges, and find it difficult to get into the write (hah, see what I did there) mindset when they only have an hour. To put it simply: write every day might work for you, but it’s hardly the only way one can become a successful writer.
That all being said, I’d really like to get into the habit myself.
I am a chronic procrastinator. It’s a byproduct of my anxiety. I even procrastinate doing things I know I will enjoy (I’m still three episodes behind on Andor). In truth, I have found that in about 75% of the obligations, tasks, and activities I encounter or plan for over the course of my day I just never feel mentally prepared for. Of course, I often have to push through that feeling and when I do I realize that it wasn’t that big a deal to begin with, and yet the cycle continues with the next task.
For years I have been trying to stymie the worst of these mental block with healthy habit forming to mixed success. The reasons why are best left to therapy, but one of the biggest hurdles has been maintaining the habit long enough for it to actually become ingrained. Often times, when I’m trying a new routine, something will come up a week or two in to interrupt it (appendicitis twice in two months for example), and then after things settle down I just give up. But, more often than not, a new routine that starts off strong just… fades until I’m back to the way things were before I started.
This week in casual conversation about changes we were implementing at my day job, my boss mentioned that it takes about ninety days to form a new habit.
Reader, I was floored. For some reason, I think maybe I read something online somewhere, I thought that habit forming only took three weeks. Now I’m being told it’s actually three months?!
So much makes sense now about my failures to form new, healthy habits, and the ones that did manage to take were largely by happy accident. I haven’t been trying to keep the new routine up for nearly long enough.
And now I’m thinking about all the things I would like to turn into habits, if I can make it the three months. Obviously writing every day, sure, but blogging also. Reading. Making an effort to connect with the community (via Twitter, Instagram, etc). Suddenly my growth, not just as a creator but as a person who doesn’t want to go home and sit in her recliner and doomscroll the news or veg in front of the TV like I have been doing, seems… actually possible?
Ninety days. If I started today on these habits, by roughly Valentine’s Day I might see everything about the way I spend my free(ish) time radically transformed.
And if that’s not something to get excited about, then I don’t know what is. Here’s to trying.
Well, that’s all from me today! Until next time my friends, may your writing be plenty and your struggles be few.
her have grown tired of waiting for her to stir and seem intent on rousing her themselves. The boot in her ribs pushes insistently, forcing the woman onto her back.
“Up ye get, girl,” the older man says. “This ain’t no nursery.”
The woman cracks open her eyes, still stinging with sweat, and peers up at the figures standing over her. One is indeed older, his dark beard salted with gray and weathered lines at the creases of his eyes. It is he who is closest to her, leaning on the haft of his spear to get a better gander.
“You think me eager to place my stamp upon history’s letter?” Leema asked, offended – and stung that he could so misjudge her. “You imagine my primary concern is how I will be perceived? You believe death of my countrymen, the misery of those in the border towns who bear the brunt of your patron’s warmongering – the near mortal maiming of my own mother – to be of less consequence to me than something so vain as… as… glory?”
Ildon said nothing, because there was nothing he could say. There was no justification to make, no excuses to utter. He was wrong.