|Photo by Mon OEII via Flickr|
Do you ever think you have no idea what you're doing? Ever feel like you're floundering around, gasping for air, like a big blob of fish on the pier? And everybody's looking at you, wondering what the hell you're doing and why don't you just flop over the side into the ocean and swim already?
Okay. Never mind then.
I haven't blogged in a while because I haven't felt like it. That's right. I just haven't felt like it.
I did write a really long blog post about this puffed up buffoon. A little bully child-man. I really hate that man. I didn't publish the post. But it felt really good to write it. I might still publish it. Hugh Howey pretty much gave me permission. He posted this on his Facebook page:
I know there are a lot of writers who won't speak their minds about politics or religion because they fear losing readers. My position was always that, if you're the kind of person who won't read an author's book because you don't like his opinions on politics and religion, you're not my target audience anyway.
And it's not like I haven't ventured into controversial topics before. I've talked about guns and the Confederate flag and feminists and misogynists and other things that bother me. But I've also talked about roaches and bananas and Epcot and The Easter Sunday blood and gore Peeps diorama competition...
I write about everything and anything.
This is the problem with being me. I don't have any real focus.
They say (they...the "experts") that your blog has to have a specific purpose, something readers are looking for. You have to show them something, or teach them something. Each post is supposed to be focused on that.
That's why a lot of writers have blogs about writing. How you write, how you publish, how you promote. Some people have blogs about books, or cats, or food. So, you subscribe to that blog because that's what you want to read about.
But not me. I don't blog that way. I just write whatever I feel like writing and if I don't feel like writing, I don't write anything. It's like, the Internet is my own personal diary space. I'm shouting out, into the void. Here's what I'm thinking at this particular time and if you don't want to read it, fine by me.
Clearly, this is not the path to the standard rich and famous contract. But that's just it. If the standard rich and famous contract has terms that say I can only write about this one thing, forget it. I'm a writer. Not a romance writer or a literary fiction writer or a fantasy writer or a non-fiction writer. I'm just a writer.
An unfocused, undisciplined, stubborn, bonkers writer. Works for me.
I posted my Red Velvet Cake recipe over on my personal website, if you're interested. I'm almost finished with the latest Dianna Dann downer fiction (aka literary) book. You can check out the cover at the Wayward Cat Publishing website. It's called Bury Me. Oh, what the hell, I'll post the cover here:
I bet you can't guess what it's about. Go on. Guess.
I have three finalists in the Royal Palm Literary Awards competition. Bookish Meets Boy by Dianna Dann in the women's fiction category. Zombie Cats by Dana Trantham in the middle grade fiction category. And a flash fiction piece called Witness.
What's funny is that I only entered Witness because you get two flash fiction entries for the price of one. The entry that was my favorite--the one I thought could win--didn't make it to finalist. Wtf? I'm working on a short story now (and by now I mean it's started and I'll get to it again from time to time) that I plan to enter next year.
That's all, then. I'll get that post on buffoonery ready to go and slap you with it.* And I promised a post on sewing vs. writing. That's a winner right there! Everybody wants to read that! I'm not unfocused after all, see? That should be my blog: Sewing vs. Writing.
It'll only work if I can manage to tie in politics, religion, and bananas.
*I posted it. And then I deleted it. I can do that. Anyway, I just thought it was too emotionally charged. Suffice it to say that I really, really hate that man.