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Showing posts from March, 2013

"writing is a job like any other" and other angry ghosts

Lately I've been freaking out.

Writing is a job like any other.
         I write every day.
It's only professional.
I write from 4 AM to 7 AM.
Writing is a job.

I didn't write yesterday, or the day before that.

         Then I do the blogging and social media stuff at night.
It's only professional.
If you don't treat it like a job, you'll never succeed.
Writing is—
         It's only—

I don't have an industrial body. It doesn't shut down at night and start up again in the morning like it's "supposed" to, clean-faced and ready for another day's labor. Sometimes, it doesn't shut down for nights and nights, and I berate it and throw pills at it until it lurches to a diseased kind of slumber, only to emerge into a diseased kind of waking, howling with hurt and betrayal like a grizzly bear waking up in a cage.

"Stupid body," I tell it. "I need you to sleep you so I can wake up so I can go to my job. I haven't worked in two…

march, march, vegetable starch...

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Why hello! I am poking my head out of the drafting hole with a casual update that has mysteriously taken me three hours to write. Some things:
In where-the-heck-are-you news...
Thanks to a tremendous stroke of good luck, Techie Boyfriend and I spent a month living here:

If you said, "My, that looks like a rustic stone bunker in the south of Portugal," you would be correct. It belongs to an artist/time traveler/healer lady who opens her doors to travelers, writers, and other lost souls. Someday, when I come into a rustic stone bunker of my own, I will need to find some busted-up writers to shelter, to pay it all forward. "Don't worry! Eat these flowers. You're no different from the bees..."

Now, we are in Lisbon, and most days I go to this place to scribble on Novel 2:


This cafĂ© has such a hypnotic flow of people coming in and out, espresso cups rattling, waiters in green aprons ferrying spectacularly stale croissants to and fro...and best of all, everyone s…