Still working on Visitor to Blue Lake but haven’t spent much time on it. Had time last Sunday, but critical voice won.
Critical voice: 1, Writer: 0
Then, earlier today I thought of a way I can beat back critical voice…treat my fiction writing like a job.
I am a big fan of Dean Wesley Smith and I think he’s right when he says we shouldn’t think of our writing as “work”.
As he says (paraphrasing here) “writing isn’t hard. We sit alone all day in a room and make shit up!”
What’s more fun that that?
But, on the other hand, just because I’m thinking of it as fun (i.e. not work), that doesn’t mean I don’t need to put in the time writing.
That means I put my BIC (butt in chair) even…nay, especially if I don’t “feel” like it!
I don’t do that to my clients, so why should I treat my own writing business like that?
So I’ve decided that…for me…I’ll think of it as a job that’s fun. This means I’ve got to show up for the “job” even when the muse has packed her bags, slammed the door shut and left no forwarding…
And…even on those days that CV tells me it’s not fun.
I’ll lock her outside on the porch and tell her to sit and spin until I’m ready to let her in again. 😛
So now that we’ve got that straightened out…I think…here’s a fun little story I wrote for a contest some years back.
Now that I’m dieting, it seems like such a tasty little tale! 😀
Dr. Fizzle’s Solution
Dark circles encased Dr. Fizzle’s eyes.
He’d been up all night, trying to fix her, but there was no use.
She’d gone to the other side, and that was that.
Slippery sweet gumdrop kisses left him wanting more, but alas, that was not to be.
He was diabetic.
Sugar, it seems, was his undoing, and since the suits found no profit to curing the disease but had grown accustomed to their fat bank accounts and even fatter customers, he buried himself in his work.
A plan to create a symbiote that would process the sugar for its host and leave no hint of its presence.
The slick haired, smooth faced suits came every week, grinning like Cheshires. “So, Dr. Fizzle…when can we see it…when will it be done?” Their offers to buy the patent were tainted with the smell of dirty money.
He lied, telling them he was years away from completion.
“Confectionary extraordinaire”, the 1970 Los Angeles Times had bragged, when he’d finished what he thought at the time was his masterpiece, Chocolatus Vesuvius.
Twelve pounds of maddening delight; chocolate, marshmallow, nuts…and that was just the top layer.
Yes, he’d built his fortune on the poisonous delights, the delicate flavors that dance along your tongue, sending shivers up your spine…but slowly turning your pancreas into mush.
Refusing to be badgered by the suits and the megabeasts they represented, he told them he’d given up – that everything he’d tried had failed, so he quit. They quit pestering him, but he knew they wouldn’t give up so easily.
She had worked perfectly for 25 years, the symbiote, like a second skin tucked under his…hidden from any scanners and performing like a racehorse on steroids.
Ah, the sugary delights he’d consumed. He fell into a sugar daze every night.
Life was sweet…if only for a time.