The Waiting is the hardest part
I have wasted so much time waiting. Waiting for people. Waiting for doctors. Waiting for medical procedures.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Usually I read books or listen to podcasts, or I used to write while waiting. This is the kind of of waiting where you could be interrupted at any time, so your mind is half-expecting to be interrupted. So you can’t “get into” anything. I’m so sick and tired of waiting. Waiting for the muse. Waiting for certain people to do things with or for me.
If there’s such a thing as “active waiting”, that is, doing the things I really want to do while waiting until people get their act together. I will carry the book with me everywhere I go (at least in my phone) and read while I wait. No more staring out into space, waiting. Planning my next novel. Planning my next read. Rehashing what’s in my cards for the day. Yep, no more pointless waiting on people or things.
Been a while. I don’t know if it’s because I’m busy or preoccupied.
My OCD has reared its ugly head again. Instead of a movie playing in my head, I have a constant soundtrack. It wouldn’t be too bad if it wasn’t so loud and distracting. I mean, who doesn’t want their playlist in their head? It’s also not the whole song, but sometimes the first verse and chorus, sometimes just the chorus, sometimes a line that plays over and over. The only thing that alleviates it is listening to music I already know well, reading, or talking. Work is mindless and it’s really loud then. Whenever I’m alone, it’s overwhelming.
The Shrink says that I’m under stress. What stress? Work, money, dialysis, lose weight, watch my diet and fluids, Covid, kid has no job…Stress? Where?
The Shrink also said is I should get back into writing (who’da thunk). Start small. Scenes here and there. Don’t write for publication, but for my own enjoyment. If a story comes out of it, all the better, but don’t aim for it because even that causes me stress. Just write. It doesn’t have to have a point or be something profound. I don’t need a story to write. I just need characters and a set. Sometimes a story unfolds itself, sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes it ends up as a part of a story, sometimes it ends up in my “CRAP” box.
I need to go back to when I was a kid and just sat and wrote. The story would show up on its own. I wrote to stop the boredom. To get out of my life. I wrote Mary Sues, fan fiction for The Dukes of Hazzard, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and fan fiction for historical events. The American Civil War was a big one. Looking back, I can see that my OCD existed even in my teenage years, because I collected everything I could find on the Civil War, the Confederate side. Because I’m a Northerner, finding Confederate stuff in the early ’80’s was difficult if not impossible because of the lack of something called The Internet–you kids don’t know how good you got it. It was also then that I wouldn’t tell people my interests. What does a girl whose family is immigrants want with a biography of General Mosby? You’re nuts, kid.
So it’s back to the old days. I saw The Umbrella Academy, both seasons. I’m not into any of the characters, but I liked the world, the music, and the action sequences. The characters were so dysfunctional that I wanted to slap them. But good story.
I started watching Supernatural. There’s a whole fan-fiction base with that, I’m sure.
Can’t catch a break
Seems the body is going right downhill. My newest complaint (or symptom) is my left hand, the arm with the dialysis graft, is numb and has no strength. Now, I usually mouse with my left hand, but it’s getting so I can’t grip the mouse anymore. At bedtime, it’s the worst. I wear a brace at night. It keeps me from waking up in the middle of the night in agony because of the numbness, but it still hurts in the morning. Dialysis thinks it’s a pinched nerve, so I’m going to an orthopedic doc on Tuesday to see if they can send me for some tests.
Typing is a bugger, really. Even with an ergonomic keyboard. I can’t write, I can’t game, and I can’t sleep. The only thing I can do is read.
You can take a look (or be friends with me) on Goodreads under
I’ve sold stuff on ebay (warwriter1939) and made a good amount. I have one and a half shelves left and six months on my PO Box. (If you want to send me anything, it’s L.A. Jacob, PO Box 24, Lincoln, RI 02865.) A person at dialysis wants me to sell her stuff. Mostly clothes, but I told her that clothes, unless they’re brand names, don’t sell. We’ll see what happens.
Gaming, thinking, selling
Writing the newest story isn’t quite working out. I answered one of the main burning questions in chapter 3 and fell out of interest.
I’ve been concentrating on the game a lot, developing characters there. None have really stuck with me, though. None like Grim had. Well, Bomber V 2.0 is an interesting build and very good solo-able. I changed Grim from a dark/fire sentinel to a a fire/kin controller and that’s a LOT of fun to play. However, I have so many alternate characters (alts) that I can’t seem to stop making. Most of them are not role-playing characters.
I’ve also gone into my old books and decided to sell them. These were books I collected for a novel I wrote, and I really obsessed about them and went overboard. I decided that when I leave the bonds of this Earth, that no one will know what to do with these books. So I’ll make the money for them now. They’re located on eBay under warwriter1939. I think I’ll be selling them for the next couple of months.
Next is the podcast.
When it all goes sideways
For two weeks, I’ve been rewriting my newest WIP. Not editing. Rewriting.
And now it’s totally off the rails, and I’m only on chapter 4.
I tried to make it more involving, make the main character more sympathetic instead of accepting of everything. I ended up making her a lovesick puppy pining for some eye candy.
All the potential, all the fun in the story, is gone. I’m trying to make it logical, give it a plot, make it a typical fantasy story. I’m trying to extend a story line, establish the side stories, introduce characters that will show up later.
It’s boring as hell.
That’s not to say the first draft wasn’t boring. The first draft’s main character accepted the Mean Spirit and ran with it. There was no conflict. Oh, there was a plot. There was a story.
It reads like the first hundred pages or so, I’m trying to get my legs under me. By the first quarter, I had a clue. I dropped things here and there that, to be honest today, I have no idea what they meant (I wrote this first draft before having a Story Bible). So with that in mind, I started to sit down and edit.
The next thing I know, I’m rewriting the first chapter because of the deep edit cuts I did in chapter three. The main character should have a lot more questions than she does. But I because i know the answers, I don’t know the questions.
I need to walk away from this story and come back to it and choose to rewrite it. The more I write, the more it’s getting away from me.
As for reading, I’ve read a couple of gay romance novels that were really good, and others that said to me, “If I had that character, I’d do this instead.”
One I was reading at the same time as writing this one and I was thrilled with the characters–until book 2. A friend of mine said, “In Book 2, they always take the character you cherish and do something horrific to him.”
The author did just that. I didn’t finish book two because i was disgusted–more at myself for being led on. I suppose that’s part of the formula (hell, I did it in Book 3 of Grimaulkin’s series).
I took out my cards one day and asked, “What should my next writing project be?” I don’t remember the exact card, but its meaning was clear: something new and different. Because my life is taken up with dialysis, kid, work, and sleep, a brand new writing project doesn’t show up there.
Part of me wants to write to market. Part of me wants to write to write. All of me has no idea what to do next.