Writing the Wrong Dang Thing

It's been, I have to say, a long time since I've really felt inspired for an extended period of time. The last time was through the entire latter half of Sylv Vol II in early-to-mid 2020, and it got me through most of that novel and The Unpleasantness.

Since then, it's been... quiet. My progress through Untitled City Novel has been a sort of inconsistent plod - I'm enjoying it, sure, but it's not quite hit the same. There have been other brief flashes of inspiration for other stories or art projects, but nothing lasting more than a few days and a chapter's worth or a single page of art.

That changed about two months ago, when I fairly spontaneously allowed myself to write half a short introductory chapter to a story that has been bouncing around my head for a few years, but which I very intentionally had not been focusing on yet. There are other stories more prescient to tell that are already underway; this one could wait.

But then, very abruptly, it couldn't wait. It had to be told right now, and it was ready and it was not waiting for permission.

I ended up writing fifteen chapters in the space of about six weeks, varying between a chapter every few days, and two chapters a day. Every time I thought the flow had ended and the spigot had sputtered dry, more would gush forth. It consumed me. I had to make the playlist for it; if I sat down I had to write it; my gym sessions and dog walks and drives to work were dedicated to it. I indulged it for the first week, then it just didn't stop and so I tried to make it stop, re-reading recent chapters of City and changing my listening habits, but that didn't help at all. It just left me creatively frustrated and resentful of the other things I was "supposed" to be creating.

So, I cut myself some slack. We missed a week of Sylvpod again, sorry, and I left City for a while. I appreciated the creative flow while it lasted, revelled in how competent and comfortable writing felt, how easy inspiration came. Of course, it did eventually dry up, and that's okay.

It's okay to just have a nice diversion sometimes. There is a long, long slog left of City - finishing the first draft; many more months of editing and reviewing; probably a complete re-write of some substantial chunks; and then the slow build of titles, blurbs, covers, and promotion. I couldn't live without it, of course, but something gentler is nice sometimes.

It's okay to wander down the easy road for a while, I guess. You do not have to repent for happiness.

Poem: Untitled, 08/07/2023

Things have not been amazing in my brain recently, so here is a poem, dated 8th July 2023.

Untitled, 08/07/2023:

Keep flying, little bird.

Do not slow down.

Do not slow down.

 

Keep flying, little bird.

You must not rest.

Do not stay in one place too long.

 

Keep flying, little bird.

The hands that seem to nurture

will only try to hold you down.

 

The cage is open, little bird.

It is not home.

It is not home.

 

I know you are tired, little bird.

You must keep flying.

You will never be home.

 

Keep flying, little bird.

You cannot be loved.

Do not slow down.

Crescendo

Last week, I reached a point in City Novel that I had been looking forward to since I started writing it - a twist I had been thinking about and planning for a solid six years. It was as satisfying as you'd hope; this is my primary reason for never "jumping ahead" when writing, even if I'm stuck in a slump and the Good Part feels impossibly out of reach.

I'm not sure if it has been (I am far too tired to count now, at 11.35pm on a Friday after editing a late episode of Sylvpod), but it feels like the longest stretch since I last published a book. I think the effect is compounded by the fact that even if Sylvestus Vol II only came out two years ago or so, I had been writing Sylv for a long time, as three novels in the end front-to-back. I was writing City on and off for half the time I was writing Sylv. Dying Ember was published in 2014 when I'd already started Sylv, so -

Wait.

Each Separate Dying Ember was published nine years ago? Well, dunk.

I guess when you hit your 20s, the years really do start racing by. I hesitate and frown when people ask how old I am now, second-guessing myself - 25? That can't be right. I finished university four years ago? No, that doesn't seem true. We've lived in this house for fourteen months? No, I must be confused.

The best way, I've heard, to not feel like your life is rushing away from you is to fill it with as many new experiences as you can, as much variety as possible. It also keeps the wonder there, stops nostalgia from casting a pallour over the current day to make yesterday seem brighter.

Things are never perfect, but a missing pet is found again, a weekend arrives, a friend is visited, a sunset is watched, an annoyance is forgiven, a moment is savoured, a long-awaited crescendo is written. The wave crashes to shore and slowly withdraws. We ready, once again, to hurl ourselves forward into the new day.