The Nonplus Adventures of a Self-publishing Writer:
My Brain Unbridled
I’m having difficulty writing recently. It’s not that I don’t have any ideas- I have plenty. It’s not “writer’s block” per se since most often I need only to start pressing keys and something comes out. It’s that my brain won’t do what I want it to!
I have two stories I need to work on. One, Pet Haven 2- which I’ve tentatively titled 9 Bones, and Not Alone the second in the Just Us series. I have good notes and a general direction for both, and even a few chapters of 9 Bones, its just that I don’t have that… that thing. Is it “passion?” That word doesn’t have the correct feel.
It’s that thing that gets me excited about a story and leads to 2000 plus word chapters because I get in the flow, caught up, and can’t stop. That happened with both Pet Haven and Just Us and currently it’s happening with what was to be a little short story called, Nick Saint.
Nick Saint was suppose to be this regular-guy character, who finds that his dreams are prophetic, and begins to use them in borderline criminal ways- if stealing from the mob and pimps can be called stealing. It was suppose to be a quick story I could throw onto my monthly web page update. It was suppose to be, then it grew!
One minute Nick was sitting on the couch counting stolen money, the next minute he’s crawling into a creepy attic space where he finds huge weird looking machines, glowing green, then takes a quick trip into some guys memories in the 1940s. I think, oh, I’m heading in a weird direction but ‘that thing’ is there so I’ll kept going.
Next thing I know, he’s having dream where he’s talking to a raven (and the raven is talking back) which leads to a dead woman in a trunk and Nick buying a ticket to the city of Eastbourne, in East Sussex, England! WHAT-THE-CRAP! The story is out of control and I have no idea where it’s heading, but ‘that thing’ is still there! There has to be a tie-in between the dreams, the attic machine and the dead woman but I don’t know what the heck it is-yet.
The only strategy I have is the same one used by professional bull riders- Hang on and hope the horn sounds before the bull throws me off and kicks me to death!
AD Faircloth, Pensacola, FL, 2/2015
Be sure and check out my webpage, anthonydfaircloth.com, for my other books and some short stories you’ll only find there.
ALERT ALERT ALERT– Newsletter Modification –ALERT ALERT ALERT
As I suspected would happen about attempting this newsletter thing, I am having difficulty keeping up with it. Yes, I know, you all wait, each and every month, longing for my fabulous newsletter, but alas, I have found it difficult to get it out each and every month. To cope with both your longing and my punctuality (or lack thereof), I am going to a “monthlyish” newsletter!
I can hear you all saying, Brilliant, in unity, and that my friends, is honey to my ears. So, from here on out, I will try to publish a newsletter each month, plus or minus a week… or two… ish. In this way I can still let you know whats going on without completely ‘harshing my wave,’ or ‘creeping my calm.’
– Cheers
I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly. – Edgar Rice Burroughs
Read more at Writer’s Digest
New Short Story on anthonydfaircloth.com
Checkout anthonydfaircloth.com and read my new short story, a part of the Median Chronicles called, Sarc the Explorer.
Story Spotlight- Player Piano
A background in music causes Rose Lukas to go in search of a piano when she moves to Water Well, Alabama. She forever changes life for herself and those around her. Like the piano, she can produce sweet music when properly played, but unlike the piano, she cannot endure life in motionless silence.
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G. Charles Cook is a distinctly Southern writer, who grew up in South Alabama and writes in an easily understood style that brings to life characters, who are both colorful and descriptive, with whom the reader can easily identify.
You can find, Player Piano on Amazon.