April's Camp Nanowrimo starts next week, and I'm beginning to geek out about it, already dreaming of chocolate chai lattes and airship pirates and the degradation of the temporal structure.
Meanwhile, I've finished and submitted my Amtrak Writer's Residency application, and have been dutifully managing my "significant social media contacts." I tweet now. I tumbl. I'm also working on a fiction piece for Ploughshares, though the process feels overly forced. I ride the steampunk novel like a wave, but this literary piece is a road-side root canal.
For instance: yesterday, I spent the great majority of my day writing a paragraph or two of uninspired literary goo, erasing it, and starting over. I finally relented and started working on the steampunk novel instead. Three pages later, I reluctantly surfaced because I had to leave work. I see no purpose in needless suffering in the writer's process. Writers are like dancers. Some are ballerinas. Some jump, jive, and wail. Give me Sing, Sing, Sing over Swan Lake any day.
So, maybe no Ploughshares.
If you'll excuse me, I have to find my sleeping bag and Coleman lantern...
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