Procrastination, and Mouse Romance Novels

My head aches today.

It isn't the typical headache or migraine, but rather the dull ache of a brain that has spent the entire afternoon researching material that is needed for my novel (a written adaptation of a 3-Act play written by my mother.) Some of you are already aware of my current endeavor, although the actual material will (until publication) remain hidden. The play itself is powerful - a gold mine filled with things that will blow current trends out of the water. I guard it as fiercely as the angels guarded the Garden of Eden. My task is therefor to flesh it out into novel form; this is either a ministry, or a curse. I choose to think of it as the former.

I enjoy writing, and I have a thirst for research. My Theological Quest is secondary to my Scientific Quest, and often those two pursuits smack into each other when anthropology rears her ugly head. (If you do not understand this, don't ask. The Bemused One is much too tired to expand upon that musing.)

Forgive me, Roadchick! - Autrice seems to have developed a taste for referring to herself in the third person! (I adore 'Chick's blog, for that reason!)

It stands to reason that my head aches today for no better reason than "brain drain". I've been thinking too much. A proper remedy is, of course, to step back from the project and allow the thoughts to settle into a recognizable pattern. Unfortunately, due to my lack of discipline (a necessary thing for any writer to master!) I tend to then put off working on current projects altogether, abandoning them as new concepts take shape. As I stated in a previous entry, I have several novels in the works, some completed and in need of polishing, and others merely ideas mapped out on paper.

I do my best writing in the wee hours of the night, when I can appreciate the silence of the house (and when Mr. DelDrago doesn't have those *rhymes with "ducking"* Star Trek reruns blaring from the television.) People who know me personally will tell you that I am an absolute bitch when I'm in my "composition" mode - do not bother me, do not call me, do not pull me from my work, and - under no uncertain terms - do anything that puts your life in jeopardy. The world ceases to exist, when I write, and all things of the world no longer have any meaning. Time becomes immeasurable. I will sit down and proceed, only ceasing when duty calls or I need more water in my glass. One of these days I will have to stop suddenly as my over-crowded ashtray has finally caught fire. It would make everyone's life much easier if I would just become a night owl. However, we are taking classes through Jefferson County in order to qualify for the state's adoption program, and as those occupy our Tuesday and Thursday evenings (and all day Saturday), I can not shrug off the mantle of a diurnal animal and give myself up to my nocturnal desires. So, forced to work during the day, I become a pest to those around me.

The phone rings, and I toss the handset it to Better Half, growling "I'm not available."

The doorbell chimes, and I announce to Better Half, "I'm not home."

The dog comes over and hits my mouse button with her nose, thus deleting the entire chapter I had just completed, and I become a vicious beast, spewing forth a cloud of vile expletives aimed at the poor animal's questionable parentage.

If I want to make sure better Half remains in my life, it would be best to become nocturnal, I think. He really gets a lot of neglect when I write. It isn't that he doesn't know any better than to bother me... but I don't think he understands the mind set and focus of a writer as they work.

Writing has never been an effort or struggle for me. I do enjoy it. I wrote the "Monster" piece in under five minutes, simply because of the challenge of being among the top ten entries. When I set a deadline for myself, I launch whole-heartedly into my task. I have given this current novel a completion deadline of one year. The timeframe is not reflective of the effort of creating/fleshing out the new concepts that I am adding to the work, but it reflects the sheer amount of data (lines) and background that needs to be formatted to book form. (If I can ever manage get it published, you will understand why this is such a challenge. I will tell you that it is based in theology, historical texts, ancient cultures and customs, and factual figures - all of which require, on my part, solid research.)

On that note: I said "Get it published", not "publish it". Aspiring writers, please beware - self publication does not make you a writer. Anyone can "self publish", and once you do so, professional writers will never take you seriously. Never, ever fall into the trap of "self publication". You are simply paying money for some group to render your work into a form that can be circulated to the masses. You will end up having a basement or garage filled with your book, tucked away into boxes and growing moldy. If you are serious about your craft, you will work your ass off until you produce something so worthy that a major publisher takes notice and offers you a contract.

One other grain of wisdom to offer: the world has too many flimsy dime-store romance novels, and any sorry sex-deprived housewife can write smut and get it published. No one will take you seriously if you write crotch novels, unless it is within the crotch novel genre itself. Would Steven Spielberg be a household name if all he could direct was porno movies? So by the same logic, will you be considered a successful author if all you write about is various takes on the same lame plot: girl is beautiful/haunty/rich/poor/insert your daydream here, girl meets man/Fabio/beast/lord/knight/adventurer, man takes girl's virginity (in a rugged, passionate, highly sensual way - and she always climaxes the first time around!), girl and man overcome obstacle, girl wins? Pshaw. What a boring formula.

Here is my take on the Romance Novel:

Lab mouse one tossed her wee white head back, the movement a proud display of the attention she knew she commanded. Lab mouse two stared at her subtly, holding back his urges to ravish her luscious form until she submitted to him in both will and desire. He would have her as his own, and she knew it. She would often imagine him peppering her mousy body with hot steamy licks of his mousy tongue, and she felt herself growing hot despite the warm lab lights that constantly glared above them. He leaned over, his nose nuzzling her neck, and she found herself caught up in desire. She turned towards him, his scent filling her nostrils and causing her bosom to heave as he pushed her trembling body to the floor, and then she screamed as the giant hand plucked him from beside her and began dropping Clorox into his eyeballs. The end.

See? As I said, the basic romance formula is easy to follow. Who needs talent to do that??

I've procrastinated enough for today.