What is it they say about the best of intentions?
I've been meaning to post to the blog for a while; I mean, I knew I was going to have a little bit of down time but this has gotten to be a bit ridiculous. I got sidetracked... heavily sidetracked, and I'm still sidetracked except that I felt I really needed to put something up here to explain myself.
My wife and I have been house hunting, and it's taken over every waking hour of our lives; first in the searching, then in the viewing, then in the searching again, then in the viewing again, then in the disappointing and shifty maneuvers of the realty industry, then in the searching, then in the frustration, then in the viewing, then in the finding, then in the offering, the inspecting, and the waiting... God, the endless waiting. I've been unable to concentrate on anything else... I can't seem to make my mind focus on anything else... I've got nerves rattling around in my stomach, and an inability to sleep in any great degree of comfort... and writing... well... not much of that either I'm afraid... and it's not like I don't have a lot to do.
This house hunting thing has been like a great cosmic monkey wrench in the machine works of my own little universe - talk about a distraction. It shouldn't be any great secret to anyone that writing is a creative act that requires a fair amount of concentration. Now if you can drop into a Zen-like state of empty mind where all you are doing it writing and thinking of nothing else but writing, my hat is most definitely off to you... you're a literary Bodhisattva. The rest of us mere mortals need to be able to give at least a fraction of our concentration to the task at hand, and that often means that all manner of other odd shit is going to come flying by like a mental montage of current stress points and worries.
I'd like to focus on the writing I'm currently crafting, and the revision of the writing I recently completed... but nothing doing, at least not right now. It's all out the window - all subject to defenestration by the need to acquire a permanent abode for the family. Oh, the misery of growing up and having to be an adult... what a load of shit. Hahahahahaha!!! Funny, how the things you need to do are always impinging upon the things you want to do: such is life; it is what it is, and all that garbage. I recently read somewhere (and for the life of me, I cannot remember where otherwise I'd link to it) that process of writing is more about the time you spend not writing than about the time you do spend writing. If you're not writing (and I mean actively writing with pen in hand or fingers on keyboard) then, in my mind, you damn well better be percolating something in your head because you sure as hell can't call yourself a writer if you don't write.
I've been scribbling in my old-fashioned, analog, paper notebook every chance I get; which most often is in the morning before I go to work (work, another one of those needs impinging on desires...). I'm still writing... I'm just not writing what I want to be writing; and the more astute of you might point out that I could be working on my project right now rather than wasting time with this blog that no one reads any how (and you'd be absolutely right, so fuck you... hahaha).
The moral of the story is that life is always ready to place pitfalls in your path, so fuck it. Do what you want when you want, while you can... just be ready for the bumps in the road because they are coming - just around the bend most likely, and they may suck like a thick, curly hair in a hamburger but they're unavoidable... so suck it up.
Cheers!
About Me
- Mr. G
- Dan Garcia resides in San Antonio, Texas, in a household ruled by a dog and a cat. These benign overlords allow Garcia, his wife, and two daughters to live with them so long as they are served unquestioningly. The dog and cat compel Garcia to write stories of imaginative fiction and fantasy; their rationale being: the potential for supplementary income from the sale of these stories means the possibility of more treats and toys for them. Thus, when not at work at the San Antonio Public Library, Garcia is permitted to craft his tales despite the fact that this activity limits his availability for scratching and petting. Hell-Kind is Garcia’s first novel which he was allowed to type because of his opposable thumbs and agile digits; the dog and cat did all of the actual heavy-lifting for the story, and are not particularly concerned with receiving credit for the book.
