The last few days have been difficult for my writing. Anxiety is a steady companion and my output has been nothing but consternations. While I have been writing, I’ve not been posting. It’s not that I’m not more embarrassed about my consternations than normal (although, they are bad), it’s more that I’ve not had the energy or wish to read my writing enough to edit it to a semblance of the English language. After looking through the writing, there isn’t much there worth saving. I’ll throw some of the more interesting tidbits into this musing and call it an edit.

One such section described writing exercises I’m planning to begin (hopefully today), in an effort (1) to write something other than consternations when my story well is dry for the day, and (2) to become hopefully a better writer.

I’ve been waving my hands too much lately. It’s time I did something about this unfortunate behavior. Instead of struggling—or, worse, reworking the sewcrates.com design, which I’ve begun to have an itching to do—I’ve decided to try writing exercises as outlined in Building Fiction: How to Develop Plot and Structure by Jesse Lee Kercheval. I found this book on my bookshelf. I’m not sure when I bought or whether I ever read it (I don’t think I did), but at the end of every chapter is a series of writing exercises, and at this point, where I’m struggling daily to have something to say, I don’t think there would be much harm in more structured writing. I’ll continue to write these useless musings when I have something to say, or work on a story when I grow sick of exercises, but when in Rome, buy lots of souvenirs, or something like that.

Before I jump into the first few exercises, let me go back and mine my last few musings to see if there are any amusingly pathetic parts.

Classic David:

How many fucking times am I going to repeat myself about nothing? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The fire burned in the fake fireplace. The round tables were dirty. The coffee was sweet with an edge to it. Her expressive eyebrows looked over at me. He thought deep thoughts. She saw disgusting sights. He heard depressing sounds. Where do all of these things come together and when? What are the words—no, fuck the words. What is it I want to say and why can’t I say it? Just, just, just.

I should stick to reading and playing with my fingers. Why won’t the words come out? I have the basis but not the ability, the right but not the advantage. The. Oh, why do I bother? So many consternations. So many angry thought directed at me. I need to get past them, but I don’t know where I’ll end up. Dastardly.

I feel so useless these days. My mind dwells on nothing. It’s a problem. Start somewhere and see where it takes you. Again, this is the painful warming up time. It’ll pass, and then you’ll have to say something—nay, you’ll want to say something. Give it time, it’s going to come. You (meaning me) worry too much about this time. It’ll pass and good things will replace it. Deal with it.

That was a good use of my time, these exercises. I read them, and I’m uninspired to say the least. I know, I should shut up and do them and stop bitching and complaining about elementary. I need beginnings. I want to skip over beginnings and jump into the interesting parts. That’s why I keep getting into trouble. Enough of this trouble. I’m going to suck it up and do something with it. I can’t believe how annoying I am at times (okay, usually).

After the exercise, I went back and continued to pound away at the Yogurt story. It still hasn’t gone anywhere, but I’m beginning to see a conflict that needs a lot more development earlier in the story. I’ll post it just because I haven’t posted much recently. It’s still very much a work in progress.