Self-Publishing, Writing Style Ire, Barney Stinson, a Foot Massage, and Tech Woes
One: I am publishing a book in the new year.
I am going to publish a book in the new year, because it feels like this year of daily poetry with #365poems should become something more. I'm going to pick out my favourites, hand them over to the Palinode to edit, and publish them with my photography. I am terrified.
This all becomes something that requires deeper and more focused attention if I do this, and I feel like I am tossing up my internal organs for public dissection. You would think I would be used to this after more than ten years of blogging, but every new creative tentacle I put out there is new and pink and soft just like the first one was.
My goal is to have the book out by February or March. Sweet jeebus.
Two: Your present tense and second person narrative writing styles are not unstoppable.
I cannot make it through more than a few sentences of anything written in the present tense (He is walking down the street, and he is happy to feel the sun shining on his face.) or in second person narrative (You walked down the street, and you were happy to feel the sun shining on your face.) without feeling ire.
Both styles strong-arm the reader into participating in the story, but the best writing allows for the reader's mind to make decisions and play within the narrative. If I am crowbarred into the narrative, I lose my freedom, and I am much more aware that a story is not mine. Rather than deepen my engagement, it lessens it, leaving less room for my creative participation.
Newer writers often employ less popular styles like this, thinking they sound edgier, but there's a reason these styles are less popular.
Three: Barney Stinson is my fictional tv boyfriend, and I'm probably a little bit ashamed.
I have been marathon watching How I Met Your Mother on Netflix, which is my new non-alcoholic method of self-soothing when life feels broken or I'm eating supper or I need a work break or I'm travelling and reading is making me carsick.
I am developing a strange attraction for Barney Stinson, a perverted womanizer who's got a touch of the sociopath in him. It's so wrong, it's right? Right?
Four: Foot massages make me stupid.
I had this great idea for number four that was going to make this list rise above, but then the Palinode started massaging my foot, and it completely derailed my idea. Behold the offending hand:
Five: My Blue Screen of Death situation is only getting worse, and it's giving me a strong case of the sads.
My laptop threw the Blue Screen of Death at me on Friday night. I took it to the shop, where they confirmed yesterday that the hard drive was fried, but I have Crashplan to back me up online, so I wasn't worried. I picked up a new laptop, tried to restore my old files onto my new computer, and BLAMMO, my backup might be b0rked, too.
I am still working with Crashplan, whom I've always had wonderful service from in the past, and I'm going to take my old hard drive in for a more intensive dissection before sending it off for replacement, so all is not completely lost yet. My fingers are crossed.
I might have just lost the last two years of everything I have created since I went freelance full time, though. Everything.
I can't even think about it. Let's go have naps.