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I occasionally express my admiration for all those I know who spend a lot of time writing, and then can demonstrate the fruits of their labours. There are some excellent stories, whether 'original' or fan fiction, posted in journals which I read, as well as essays and reviews by people who display a deep appreciation of their subjects. There are too many names to mention, but I hope you know who you all are.
I was thinking back and realised that when I was a graduate student I wrote more widely as well; I wrote poetry, some of which I still have because it found its way into SocA's Ceridwen's Cauldron, and some of which might still be found online if you know where to look (the search engines don't, it seems). The only time I finished a piece of fiction was when I returned to Oxford a few weeks after moving out in summer 1997, and one week at the end of September, with only my PC for company; resubmitting my thesis took up less time than I'd expected, and so in the white-walled basement room in Museum Road I wrote a story about how Mordred first began to turn against his uncle-father King Arthur. The lack of distractions helped.
Generally, and even more so nowadays, I don't write, because I believe that there is something else I ought to be doing, and that stops me from doing anything. It's not a surprise that I often end up doing useful things like tidying up rooms in the flat, or finishing up household tasks I've started earlier in the day, just before going to bed or when I really ought to be in bed. Not to mention the important issues like pension and tax details I've been putting off sorting out since October. Maybe I can make myself make enquiries there this week, now I've removed the trip to London from the schedule as it would have been for another book launch rather than for concentrated work, and as I'm further behind than I wanted to be on the freelance work I'm prioritising at the moment (it's more interesting than most, and therefore expands to fit the time available - pity it's on piece-rate) I haven't been able to schedule the research visits or meetings that I could have arranged in London to complement the launch party.
Reflection like this comes easily; perhaps, though, I can retrain myself to write items other than these fragments of autobiography when the mood takes me in the early hours? I managed a fragment of book proposal yesterday, a little earlier than this sort of time. There's also a Doctor Who story, which I like as an idea, which I started one Saturday afternoon in the Bodleian in March, and have since done very little with, though I added a later scene, or part of it, a few weeks ago. Generally, in the last couple of weeks, I've been in a more positive frame of mind than I have been for a very long time, but there has been something of a slide back into that not-quite indolence, not-quite indecision, waiting-for-the-mood-to-change frame of mind in the last day or so. I hope it changes back.
Update Herewith the sequel!
I was thinking back and realised that when I was a graduate student I wrote more widely as well; I wrote poetry, some of which I still have because it found its way into SocA's Ceridwen's Cauldron, and some of which might still be found online if you know where to look (the search engines don't, it seems). The only time I finished a piece of fiction was when I returned to Oxford a few weeks after moving out in summer 1997, and one week at the end of September, with only my PC for company; resubmitting my thesis took up less time than I'd expected, and so in the white-walled basement room in Museum Road I wrote a story about how Mordred first began to turn against his uncle-father King Arthur. The lack of distractions helped.
Generally, and even more so nowadays, I don't write, because I believe that there is something else I ought to be doing, and that stops me from doing anything. It's not a surprise that I often end up doing useful things like tidying up rooms in the flat, or finishing up household tasks I've started earlier in the day, just before going to bed or when I really ought to be in bed. Not to mention the important issues like pension and tax details I've been putting off sorting out since October. Maybe I can make myself make enquiries there this week, now I've removed the trip to London from the schedule as it would have been for another book launch rather than for concentrated work, and as I'm further behind than I wanted to be on the freelance work I'm prioritising at the moment (it's more interesting than most, and therefore expands to fit the time available - pity it's on piece-rate) I haven't been able to schedule the research visits or meetings that I could have arranged in London to complement the launch party.
Reflection like this comes easily; perhaps, though, I can retrain myself to write items other than these fragments of autobiography when the mood takes me in the early hours? I managed a fragment of book proposal yesterday, a little earlier than this sort of time. There's also a Doctor Who story, which I like as an idea, which I started one Saturday afternoon in the Bodleian in March, and have since done very little with, though I added a later scene, or part of it, a few weeks ago. Generally, in the last couple of weeks, I've been in a more positive frame of mind than I have been for a very long time, but there has been something of a slide back into that not-quite indolence, not-quite indecision, waiting-for-the-mood-to-change frame of mind in the last day or so. I hope it changes back.
Update Herewith the sequel!
