Monday Motivations

Monday Motivations; Ten of Pentacles

Hello friends and welcome to another wary week of writing.

I am back after an extended, unintended hiatus and let me tell you I have never missed the comfort of routine more than the last ten days.

Routine has always been important to me. Even on weekends and during my leisure time, I like to kind of have a sense of what I want to accomplish beforehand, even if that’s just “play x video game” or “run y errand at z time.”

Which is why it is should not be much a surprise that my writing suffers when I don’t have a fixed routine in place for it. What is surprising, however, that after all these years of writing both as a hobby and as a paid job, I still haven’t settled into a routine yet.

Sure, when NaNo rolls around I’ve found ways to squeeze in my words, and I’ve never yet missed a freelance deadline, so getting the work is getting done, even if it is often stressful and down to the wire. The process, though functional in the barest terms, leaves plenty of room for improvement.

I need a writing routine. A place, a time, a method. Why, when I am so motivated and comforted by structure, is it so hard for me to put a schedule in place that encourages me to get my work done?

Solving this conundrum is my motivation this week. Whether it’s getting up early, staying up late, or even leaving the house for the library in the evenings to rob myself of distractions, some way, somehow, I’m going to find what works.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Kerry Share

Drabble Rock

Drabble Rock; Week 5


distortion


The world around Arcelie rippled, as if a pebble had been dropped into the otherwise still waters of reality. The distortion bounced off the walls of the cramped classroom and reverberated back, finally converging on the spot where she was stood, breathless with anticipation.

At first, nothing happened, despite Mei’s boasts of mind-boggling magic. Arcelie was none too impressed, and turned to tell her teacher so.

But Mei Lin was no longer there. In her place was a tall figure cloaked in a shroud of terrible, undulating cosmic power.

Arcelie opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Drabble Rock

The Ballad of Mercy May; 004

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of something dreadful… and it’s drawing steadily closer.

At last summoning her strength, the woman pushes herself upright and takes better stock of her surroundings. The forest around her is dense, but there is plenty of light filtering down through the canopy, casting a warm, mottled glow throughout the grove. She guesses the sun overhead is probably at its zenith, but apart from that paltry clue she has no information. Where she is, and where she should go next, remain as much a mystery as her own identity.

To her left is a smashed tree stump and she uses it


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Thursday Words

I’m Angry Writing Isn’t My Actual Job

Note: I wrote this a few weeks ago and never got around to posting it. I ran out of time to write something new this week, so I thought I would recycle this post. Though the immediate situation has shifted (slightly), much of the sentiment is the same.


Hello friends and welcome to another irritable edition of Just Another Struggling Writer. I’m just another struggling writer.

I’ll admit it. I’ve been out of sorts this week. My boss of seven years at my day job was recently promoted, and her new position meant she unfortunately had to leave my firm. It had just been pretty much me and her for the last three years, so with her gone the responsibility for keeping the firm running has fallen squarely on my shoulders with the assistance of other company staff who have filled in as needed.

Suffice it to say, I’m stressed.

Compounding my frustration is the fact that because I’m so mentally drained by the end of my work day, writing is exceedingly difficult. I already have precious few minutes in which to squeeze drafting (I’m presently penning this blog post from outside my daughter’s guitar lesson), and when I do get some time the last thing I want to do is tax my brain any further.

Not being able to write has sent me spiraling down that lovely rabbit hole of self-doubt and depression. My ideas aren’t good enough. I don’t have what it takes. If I were serious about writing, I would make the words come out.

I know those things aren’t true. I know that if I could just get to a place where I could financially support my family with my writing, that I do have the discipline and forbearance to make writing my actual job. But I can’t do that unless I write now and write well. But I can’t do that under present circumstances. But these circumstances aren’t likely to change unless I write.

And round and round it goes.

My frustrations and anxieties aren’t new, nor unique to me. But it’s hard not to feel angry and not a little bit jealous of all those writers out there who get to do this for a living, while I and so many others struggle for just the few words we manage to eke out in the creases.

It’s petty and ultimately pointless to nurse these sort of hurts, I know, and I won’t much longer. I just wish I knew why I lacked the get-up-and-go mentality that seems to drive so many successful writers. There are so many lovely and talented authors out there, many of whom have had to struggle through the daily life of not-writing to realize their ambitions, why not me?

Why not me?


Alright, enough of that. I’m in a better-ish place now mentally than that first week, and though my day job continues to be stressful as sin, I’ve done a bit better motivating myself to write when I come home. I’ve also returned to bringing my notebook with me to my job so that I can squeeze in some sentences in the creases. Its not much, but its keeping me engaged. Now, if I can just figure out how to not go into zombie-mode the instant I get home, I’ll be in good shape.

Until next time, my friends. May your writing be plenty and your struggles be few.

Kerry Share

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Drabble Rock

Drabble Rock; Week 4


gravel


The voice in her head was like gravel grating against the fragile walls of her psyche. What started as a tender whisper, like that of a lover’s sweet nothings, had since grown into the hoarse, desperate mutterings of a madman. Night after night it begged, taunted, and cajoled by turns – whatever it deemed necessary to persuade Marceline to follow its siren call.

And night after night, damp with cold sweat and clinging to her bedsheets, she resisted. Yet, Marcie knew, in her heart of weary hearts, that her fortitude would not last forever.

Oh, how she hated to be right.

Uncategorized

The Ballad of Mercy May; 0003

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Nor can she recall where she came from, how old she might be, or even her own name. Her memory is as still as the grove around her.

But neither remain that way for long.

Something is tickling at the edge of the woman’s perception, like a low hum that she feels more than hears. The vibrations are almost comforting in their own way, and for several moments the woman is content to lay amongst the leaves and listen to them intensify. Yet, as the sound sharpens and becomes clear, she realizes what she is hearing: the deep, guttural growls


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