Musings and marginalia from a freelance writer
Storifying is a lot like plumbing: if you don’t get it right, you’ll end up replumbing the whole thing.
As I sit down to my desk I have a host of project-things scrabbling for attention. There’s the work-of-the-day (City of Kings, as well as a ghosting project, and another copywriting project) along with their associated emails, notes, and drafts that all need to be made. That kind of stuff doesn’t worry me [lie] because I know that I can order and allocate them all their correct places and times during the day [another lie]. Well, I mean by that is that I can crowbar them in and force them to co-exist. At least until my eyes melt with looking at LCD screens and being passively cooked by electromagnetic radiation all day. Lovely. Maybe one day I’ll get super powers…
Anyway; but then there’s the /other/ project-things. The Novel of Great Worth is still in draft form, the poor thing is in a shambles to be precise, but it is looking at me with those great doe-like eyes which means I have yet more attention to give it. Then there’s the anthology-thing, the story-game-thing, the future-is-weird thing, and all of the assembled ill-begot brood of story and article seeds which might not grow into anything other than a sentence bastardized into something else, or else might mulch and sprout into a new Novel of Even Greater Worth.
I’m quite seriously beginning to think that a writing life is really just time-management. Maybe it’s that 10,000 hours thing, or the 1 Million Words of Shite that Neil Gaiman and Iain Banks talk about (by the way, last week I totalled all of my ghosting work alone, and have recently passed the 2 million mark. I just have to hope that the first six zeroes weren’t all irredeemably bad…), either way beginning things, like this blog, is all about time-spent and hours clocked.