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Saturday, 18 July 2015

What My writing self did this week.

What have I done this week? The answer is very little in the way of writing. My goal of 1000 words a day have dwindled to 100, and often not even that. Oh I can blame child minding, dog walking, housework, gardening, playing Alphabetta Saga on Facebook, but the main reason is, I just don't feel inspired.
The words race each other round my head as I lie in bed each night searching for sleep, but come morning, all that inspiration has vanished like the remnants of a dream. I know I should sit up and write my ideas down, I know I should just sit at my computer and write gobbledygook until the words flow, I know I should not give up, but knowing seldom translates into doing in my case.
I have managed some scenes, which I will fit in in various places of the finished work. Problem is, I keep changing my mind about which direction I'm going. I have too many ideas, too many darlings to kill.
I did write a little poem, a task set by my writer's circle.

Homeward Bound 

Air, salt-cold,
Freezing on calloused fingers,
Grabbing irons and nets.
Heavy nets,
A good catch.
Light nets,
Hungry children.

The boat rolls,
Tossing heavenward,
Riding the swell
That fills and  billows,
Lifting her up,
Water sneaks over the sides
Across the deck,
Slithering like eals
And pools beneath the feet.
Night inks out the day.
In the east,
Lights, steady, landlocked stars,
Guide the sailor home.

Now I'm going back to look at my novella, Song for an Eagle. Will I send it to a publisher and wait for months for the rejection slip, and if it is accepted, wait a couple of years for it to actually be published? Or will I cut out the middle man and publish myself?

I am still undecided about that one. 

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