A Life Of Fiction XCIX

For those of you new to this WordPress site, this site is about me and my writing – and a little about my role-playing, as well. It gives readers a chance to sample my work before purchasing it on the Kindle store; and gives me the chance to say a little about the genesis of each novel, or about the process of writing in general.


This Is What You Write When You Can’t Think Of Anything To Say: Not every day am I full with the muses of creating prose or poetry. Sometimes I have off days, when getting the words out is not easy. One those days it will take me twice as long to write the three thousand words or so which I set myself as a daily task.

Sometimes I don’t feel like working on any of my current projects. I could spend the entire day playing some console game. But that is not a very creative use of my time. It doesn’t mean that I don’t waste a few hours doing such things, though…

So, in order to write something at all, I will switch to some other project, possibly trying to come up with a post for my WordPress site. Yes, it is one of those days when my creative juices have run dry, and this post is about such a thing. It is something which is not great if you are a writer. But, in the grand scheme of life, it really is not so bad, is it? It is not like somebody has been murdered.

I have said, in the past, that I don’t believe in total writer’s block. An author may become blocked on some project, and need to put it aside for a while. But he could write words on something else. Which is why I have several projects on the go, at once.

But there are days, like today, when I don’t feel like working on any of those, and I find that I need time off from all of them to think about the next thing which I am going to write. Sometimes I muddle through, doing a hundred words here, a hundred words there, and somehow adding to my unfinished stuff.

Sometimes, though, I look back at some of the projects which stalled, in the past, and which o put aside years ago. Suddenly I find that I have ideas of how to carry forward one of those ancient projects, and I can return to one of those, full of new life. A block on current projects has, in recent years, caused me to finish off at least three projects which had been kicking around on my computer for years. One of them I completed after a ten year gap in which I hardly wrote a thing on the piece.


I have done a word count on what I have just written. Four hundred words or so, when it seemed that I couldn’t write anything at all. Well, it is not three thousand words, is it? But it’s getting there.

Oh, I am far too fanatical about the number of words which I write in a day, something which I have been upbraided about before, by one of my friends. But it is the most effective way I can think of to measure the fact that I am still working. It has been suggested that I spend the same amount of time each day working on my novels, or my blog, or my short stories. But there are some days when I feel inspired to write, and other days when it is almost a chore. One day, if I was to set aside six hours, I might manage to do four or five thousand words, if things were going well. But if they were going less smoothly then I would probably only be able to write half that number of words, in that time period. So doing a word count really is the only way to make sure that I am doing the work which I set myself.


If you can’t think of the next line for the novel you’re working on then there is always that old bit of fun, the stream of consciousness poem, writing down lines as they come into your head. Most of those pieces of verse never get published by me, as they are simply too bad. But occasionally I will write down something strange, and not know where my brain has come up with these connected words.

To show you what I mean here is one stream of consciousness poem, Gold Lamé Soul, taken from the collection Fragments Of Arcana. So, until the next time, I will sign off:



Gold Lamé Soul


The man with the gold lamé soul

Is in your nightmares again

Gurning his diamond smile

Blinding you awhile.


He jibber-jabbers, auric pain;

Befuddles your sleep state

Freshing up with funny money

You grab it, it turns runny.


It melts, leaving nothing

But ink stains on your hands

A tattoo of lost wealth

No toasts to bitter health.


In misdreamt darklands

The pelts of hunted shells

Echoing, hollow souls

Are skinned to pay his tolls.


Spirits only in the glass

Amber poison swirling

Sweet venom in the blood

Reason drowns in mud.


Rebellious thoughts becalmed

The dream assassin smiles again

But you’ve escaped his sight

Until the following night.


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