Plans plans plans

Is it possible to get tired of your own voice?

Oh, yes!

It's strange, my desire to blog lately has been at an All Time Low, though considering I've been doing it two months that's not saying much.

Part of it, I think, has to do with what's been on my mind—namely, death and dying and saying goodbye sorts of things. That's something I have trouble writing about. Doesn't everyone? And I've been avoiding it.

I need to get back on that horse. I feel myself wanting to write something more focused. In my Thinking Like a Working Writer class we all had to write blog posts about how to write a good body of work over the course of a lifetime. There were some good tips from everyone. One that caught me right square on the chest was, Finish Something. That is, don't just piddle around in half-finished work. Because then what do you have to show for it? A whole lot of nothing, or at the very best a whole lot of half-somethings, which aren't impressive to anyone.

Blogging is good, it keeps me sharp and it keeps my brain working and grooving.

It's time to finish something. Wait, strike that, rewind it—it's time to start something, then I will finish that thing. Yes? Yes, that's how the order goes.

I'm not sure what to do, exactly. What to write about. What my project should be. What could I finish? Well, I have Radioland Number Nine going. That's something I could definitely finish. And something I should finish.

And to hell with it. You know another piece of piece of advice? Instead of doing five things half assed, do one thing well. That has to do with Fear. Funny how that is—it's all based in fear. Here's the thing—I commit myself fully to a project like working on Radioland Number Nine, and finishing it, and then what if nothing happens? I can't say I didn't put my all into it, because I did. That's why working on multiple things at once, that's why working on things and not finishing them, that's why I do them—because it protects me and makes me safe. If I don't fully commit to a project, I'm never disappointed.

Now I need to give myself credit. I have finished a handful (okay, three, but don't get so particular) of stories and they're good, they're decent. And I have written a novel draft in six weeks (and come on now, Lucas, that's an accomplishment). And I've finished a graphic novel with a team of artists. And I have and I have . . . yeah yeah, okay, so I've done some things.

That's great. Good for me. Now it's time to do more.

I've got Radioland just sitting there. It's time to dust it off, reread what I've got, find it's pulse, and start pumping blood into that sucker. That's all it needs, a little lifeblood, a little love, and a lot of energy and effort and devotion. But mostly love.

Maybe I'll post some excerpts of Radioland Number Nine up on here. I've got the first two chapters decently solid. I think, though, for a children's book (and any book in general) I could afford to have a good plan. Not an outline—my God, not an outline—just a plan, something to go by. The initial want, the initial conflict. We'll see how it's resolved as I write. But as I learned with Bordeaux Born Anew (wow, it seems forever ago), I would do well to have a solid idea of the initial conflict, the initial premise, before I start.

Plan of action! Reread Radioland, get a plan working, and go go go. Write like NaNoWriMo, write with fingers on fire. That's the way. Write with finger's on fire, write with heat in the stomach, write with lava in the lungs. Write fast and strong and confidently and without hesitation.

Then we'll see what to do about it.