A work in (kind of) progress

I'd have to admit I've seen more productive days. Well... months, really. Apart from an eight hundred word feel-good short story, I've not written anything. Life gets in the way, you know? Things happen you KNOW you should have done better, your confidence slips off and hides in the bedside table, waiting to laugh at you halfway through the night. Health problems with loved ones won't go away. And your back hurts.

But there are a few half-started manuscripts lurking in the WIP folder. Personally, I don't think this is half bad. Maybe it'll be an incentive to get off my arse and do something more with it.

It's called Vagabond's Conquest. Although that's subject to change without notice.

********************

The noise of the crowd swirled around Brent like a storm. Highs and lows, shrills and flats, all meaningless sounds mixing with the cocktail of stale beer and the unmistakable tang of carra weed. Swallowing the last of his beer he shoved himself to his feet. There was no point in staying here. In fact, he'd better get Vagabond out of here before the station master impounded her. His stomach lurched at the thought of losing his ship. Fuck Narvak. Brent had only been an hour late, bugger all in the scheme of things. But Narvak didn't wait for anybody, and some other space jock had been given the job. 

 

Brent sidled past a group of half-drunk miners. One of them had the girl who'd tried to seduce him sitting on his knee, his gaze fixed on her tits. Brent couldn't blame the miner. He would have been doing the same thing if he'd had the credits.

Outside the bar the air in the street was cooler, even here in the middle of the station. He headed off toward the transit system which would take him to the distant docking bay where Vagabond rested along with the other tramp haulers. The street was virtually empty in this industrial part of town. The din from the Wayfarer and a couple of other taverns ebbed and flowed. A streetbot beeped toward him, gathering up the litter. Brent stepped around the machine and was about to walk on when he heard someone trying to stifle a cry of pain. He hesitated for a nanosecond, then moved on. Not his business. He had his own problems. He'd taken two paces before another sound jerked him to a halt.

That splat was someone hitting someone. The woman's cry of pain was bitten off. A male voice growled, the tone threatening. He knew that scenario all too well, listening to his father beating up his mother. He remembered the bruises on her face, the cut lip, the broken ribs. He couldn't walk away. 

Brent let his ears lead him to the narrow alley between two buildings that he'd just passed. In the shadows he made out a hulking figure standing over someone on the ground. "On yer feet, bitch. And don't try that again."

The figure on the ground stirred.

"Hurry up bitch. I ain't got all night."

The man didn't move, but the woman whimpered as she struggled to all fours. He chuckled. "Hurts, dunnit?"

Fury raged up Brent's gut. Bastard. Gutless wonder. "Let her be, asshole."

The man whirled, his left hand clenched. "Mind yer own business, buddy. She's a prossy. I paid for her, so she does what she's told."

LIFE INTRUDES, WRITING SUFFERS

When I was active in STAR TREK fandom, we used a phrase to describe the need to stop having fun and return to the world of adult responsibilities—“life intrudes”.  As in, “No, dude, I can’t [attend the next con/participate in the costume contest/
practice for the filking performance], life intrudes.”  It meant we had to attend to the real world tasks of earning a living, taking care of the family, feeding the dog or cat. 

I’ve noticed since then that lots of geeky groups use the phrase—fans of graphic narrative (uh, that would be comics to the rest of us), gamers, re-enactors of all stripes and, oh, yes, romance writers.  Not all of us are geeky, mind you, but we all live in some alternate universe of fantasy, where all the women are empowered and all the men incredibly handsome AND sensitive.  We’d stay there indefinitely, except the kids just keep asking to be fed for some reason.  Life intrudes.

In my case this summer, life has intruded in a major way.  Not exactly like Godzilla intruded on Tokyo, because all of the life events I’m experiencing are positive.  I’m grateful for them, truly.  Still, they are all-encompassing, commanding not only my time and attention, but also my emotional energy, which is much more devastating to the concentration one needs for writing.

So what’s going on? 

--I’m moving.  Huge disruption here.  My husband and I are selling the home we’ve owned for 18 years, clearing out the detritus of over 120 combined years of existence on the planet, 38 years of marriage, two kids and multiple pets.  Yes, that’s right, we’re downsizing.  That means a decision must be made about every photo, knick-knack, bauble, tool, piece of furniture and item of décor.  It’s not only physically exhausting, it’s mentally brutal.  If I were the sentimental type, which thankfully I’m not, it would be emotionally crushing.

Still, we found buyers for our house after having the place on the market for only a month.  We located a nice house to rent for the next year before we move down to North Carolina to start building our dream house.  So, you know what?  It’s all good.  I’ll try not to trip over the boxes in the dark and be grateful the local landfill is just a short drive away.

--My youngest daughter is getting married.  I don’t mean she’s going to a justice of the peace to get hitched.  I mean she’s putting on a formal shindig worthy of mention in the same paragraph with Will and Kate or Kim and Kanye.  But only to say that those couples were extravagant morons when it came to wedding stuff, while my sensible daughter is keeping her special day well within bounds.  Still, formal weddings take a LOT of planning and time, what with multiple dress fittings and cross-state hunts for appropriate undergarments (!).  Fortunately for me, my daughter has things under control.  My main function seems to be Sturdy Shoulder for those times when It All Becomes Too Much.  But, again, she’s marrying a great guy, and they’ll be happy.  Al we have to do is get through October 5.

There are some other long-simmering issues that have finally been resolved this summer, too, which I won’t go into.  Suffice it to say that they needed time and attention, but it was well worth it to accomplish a goal my family has been pursuing for over five years.  Now we’re adjusting to a new, happier reality, and that takes emotional energy, too.

Never for a moment am I forgetting that I have my first book coming out in six months.  Or that a second book will need to be polished and prepared for publication six months after that.  One reason we decided to sell the house now, rather than next spring, was so I could concentrate on promotion, rather than packing, once the book comes out.  But there’s no question, life has intruded on my writing in a big way.  I’m stuck in the middle of the first draft of a short story meant to get out there ahead of the publication of Unchained Memory. Arrgh! Laurie was kind enough to send feedback on my third book that I haven’t even had time to look at. Sorry, Laurie! I’ll get this blog in, but I’ll neglect to respond to comments.  So sorry, dear readers!

I know I’m not the only one for whom the obligations of real life form obstacles to our work.  In most cases, the real world is not at all benign in snatching us away from our lovely alternate universes.  Laurie has shared with us just recently her personal challenges.  Sharon has certainly had frightening, life-altering intrusions to overcome.  Even Stephen King, whose 363-days-a-year work ethic is legendary, eventually had to face reality when a distracted van driver knocked him off the road and nearly into the next world.

The only remedy we have for this inevitable fact of the writers’ life is to recognize the intrusions as temporary, deal with them as best we can and get back to work as soon as possible.  Moving day is September 7; we close on the house September 12.  I should be settled into the new place and back to work before the wedding on October 5.  Then, after it’s all over, my daughter says we deserve a spa day.  Just the thing to get the old creative juices flowing again.

P.S.  Happy First Birthday to my granddaughter!  Little Lana is quite the diva, a delight to all who know her.

Cheers, Donna