Boiling Water

Even boiling water grows cold without a fire.

Real Artists Ship.

Writing is like riding a bicycle. You never completely forget how to do it, but if you stop pedalling, and coast, sooner or later you fall off.

Telling yourself these things is easy; really knowing them is hard. Living them is nearly painful. It’s always been one of the most frustrating parts of my life as a writer: I write in little bursts and pieces, mostly when I’ve just barely woken up and my dreams are still dying in the morning light. Some of my friends can write a few thousand words in a session; I count myself lucky if I clear a few thousand words in a month. Even keeping that in mind, though, having dry spells that long makes me uncomfortable. It’s bad discipline.

I’ve been gone for a month now, and I don’t really have much of an excuse. I let my water get cold. I stopped pedalling for a while, and I fell off.

I’m back, though, or at least I think I am. I have a few projects burning, most importantly the next Tybalt story; I promised someone I would have it finished by YaoiCon.

Sit tight; I’ll try to share something soon.