Modify

I came to a realization as I labored my way through my workout today.

It deals specifically with writing, but has general tones of resilience, so if that piques your interest, read on, dear blog-peruser.

Today is one of those days that motivational people write about, where crap keeps going wrong, work keeps piling up, people are stupid, you’re tired and feel like crap, you’re over-committed, run ragged, just need to buckle down and do the work, no matter what.

The problem is that I WANT to do the work. I don’t WANT to do anything else other than sit down and do the work. I want to write, I want to be in flow. I want the words to sail out of my fingertips and be perfect and honed and crafted and make my readers laugh and cry and want to go kiss their sweethearts because they are so moved by my brilliance…

Nope.

Not happening.

Nada.

I have shown up and been at the workstation most of the day. I write a sentence and delete it. I think of a starter phrase and dismiss it. I think I have a brilliant thought and it dives off over a ledge, into the weeds, and ends in some kind of shocking, gory way straight out of A Million Ways to Die in the West.

I don’t feel brilliant. I barely even feel pithy. But I what I do feel is the driving, almost consuming need to do work. So where is the advice on what to do with that?

I did what any sensible person needing information would do: I went and did Insanity and watched a show on Netflix.

And that’s when the epiphany hit.

Modify.

I do Insanity most days of the week. There are still some moves that kick my fucking ass. Around the worlds are especially brutal. So today, when that move came up, and my body hurt, my heads all stuffy from a cold, my throat is still sore, and my nose won’t stop running, what did I do?

I did two jumps forward and two jumps back for time and called it good.

Was it my goal of doing the move so fast and clean and well that I kicked all the asses of the people in the video and looked good doing it? No. Not only no, but hell no.

And you know what?

I’m good with that.

Because a little bit of something, keeping moving, keeping afloat, is better than doing nothing and sinking. So that, my friends, is today’s two cents. To modify, adjust course, and keep on rowing, we’re all in this together.

Have you visited Harper Bliss’s blog yet to check out Rachel O. Esplanade’s interview? Why not, it’s the next stop on the Forbidden Fruit blog tour! Get your cute butt over and check it out pronto! ;-)

And while you’re at it, do me a favor and have a really great day.

Breaking the Rules

So I didn’t set out to adhere to all the rules of NaNo. In fact, other than 50,000 words toward a novel, I didn’t know there were any hard and fast rules. My main goal was to get words on paper and push past the word count block I've had. So in that way, I’ve already won. Keeping it up for a month? That’ll be the true test. I’ve also learned that I can’t just write fiction. I have to get all the junk out of my head first, recap the day or write about events as they happen, and get the gunk out of the pipes so when the fiction does come, it doesn’t get bogged down in all the soap scum and hair balls of meaningless emotions and crap that tend to clog up my writing drain. In short, I have to clean the sink trap of my brain daily. Since my life is pretty undramatic, I should probably feel weird about this. Do I? Not really. It’s not any stranger than having to have a cup of tea and a black cat on your lap before you can sit down and write. And if cleaning the pipes gets me to word count more days than not? Bring it. And gods help my son if he ever starts reading the old rough drafts. He might find out more about his dad’s and my romantic life than he ever wanted to know!

Anyway, for more on breaking the rules, there’s a wonderful post at http://blog.patrickrothfuss.com/2011/12/nanowrimo-epilogue/.

And before I forget, here’s a clip from today’s writing stint. Enjoy :)

As he reduces her to the same well-pleasured puddle of desire that he can so easily reduce me to, I whimper with frustration. I can feel my panties growing increasingly sodden—not wet, drenched—and I ache for his mouth, her mouth, anyone’s mouth, sucking my clit; or for his cock to pound out the aching desire throbbing through my lower lips.

He hears the sound and his eyes flash as they make contact with mine. He ceases in his endless teasing of [her] neck, upper back, and shoulders and instead reaches around and thrusts a finger into her wet pussy. He uses his other arm to haul her tight against him when her knees buckle.

I bite my lip, determined not to make another sound. He’s doing this to punish me, to make me wait for it, to make me want it so badly I can’t stand it. And I do, I want to cry, I really do. I want your cock in my cunt, I want your teeth to sink into the flesh at my shoulder, I want your palm to crack over my ass, raising red marks and the rush of heat and tingles that follow. I want I want I want…

But instead I bite my lip and wait, because for every thing I want, there is a price. And I am willing to pay it. The waiting will only make that first blow so much more sweet.