Dear God, I’ve opened a Pandora’s box. That networking group has given me a lot of activities to keep me on my toes. On the down side, it has cut into my writing time. I’ve been here before though and have watched other people under the stress. Remember the metaphor of running a marathon versus sprinting? Yeah, that’s this.
I AM NOT GOING TO CALL MY WRITING A PASSION. That’s trite and it belongs in a job interview, not on my writer’s palette. If I know only one thing of the writers I love, they don’t make overtures to their personal craft. They use it. They love it, but they don’t massage it. The passion is understood though their output. There’s no need to talk it up.
That last paragraph should read “I’m still writing.” This is the time to clutch on to my creativity like a balloon you don’t want to fly away. That’s especially so after last week’s story. It was a very difficult write, but I’m very proud of the result. It’s more soulful than my other works. It’s more alive. It’s that gritty realism very few people are comfortable acknowledging. My style is why I get suggestions to read Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, and the like. I’ll get there, people.
May’s got me in a much better mood than three months ago. It’s 17° C out (62° F), and I can walk outside without wanting to erupt into profanity like Lewis Black. I’m getting some landscaping done mid-week and sooner or later I can put the screens back in the windows. I haven’t scored any big victories lately. So, the small ones will have to do.
Corvidae in the Fields 
Hurray for small victories.
I’ll take what I can get. 🙂
I must say, I’m a little envious of your weather… it was close to 90 degrees down here today. For some reason, I felt like my skin was going to fry.
It’s a trade off. What we went through this winter was pretty rough.
Glad the BNI thing’s working out, Nate. And the weather.
At least I’m seeing progress. That’s always good.
I’m also glad the networking thing is working out.
There is something peculiar and a bit big-r Romantic about writing as necessarily a passion, as opposed to … well, what you do because it’s so enjoyable. There seems like there ought to be a place for writing, hopefully well, because it’s pleasant than because the words are tearing their way out of your soul.
There’s a certain drama some writers get about themselves when they talk about their work, but I think that’s a bit too theatrical for what I write. Bukowski said “don’t try,” but I use a little Bukowski logic and say “bugger off, Chuck.”