Cranky

Let's just suppose I'm in despair.  Does Clarion do a mid-life crises special?  Should I just get a tattoo, like some people?  I could just change the blog title to "Will Whine for Free."

Really, I don't know what I'm complaining about, exactly.  Nothing's really wrong, I still have a better life than, say, 90% of the planet, socio-economically speaking, and yet there is something lacking.  I have blogged about the lack of real-life writer buddies a lot (I'm too lazy to look for the links, though) and try as I might, I still can't come up with any solution that doesn't involve leaving this country.  Don't get me wrong, Bloglodytes- I love you guys.  But there's just nothing like someone who lives 10 minutes away threatening to come and bludgeon you with a 400g block of Switzerland's Finest if you dangle one more sodding preposition or switch pov twice on the same page.  Then there's the warm fuzzy feeling of being able to offer such supportive bludgeoning services in return.  I'm not asking for solutions to this problem- it's pretty insoluble unless Kelly Link or Neil Gaiman moves in down the road (Ah, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!) but I just need to whine.  We now return to our regularly scheduled sommer.

Which includes:
1) Wishing my cat would come home :(
2) Teaching Prima all the math and English her pos teachers have failed to teach her over the last few years so she can have a good start in the new school.
3) Trying to keep Middlekid and Thirdling from killing each other- now that Middlekid is going to the upper school, puberty/sibling rivalry seems to be in overdrive.
4) Trying NOT to declare Switzerland to be the most boring country on the planet.  Yes, the Alps are gorgeous, now GET OVER IT, already, and realise that Heidi makes lousy company!
5) Going to visit this guy, who should be cloned and seeded all over Switzerland, because he makes great company.

Sorry to be so grumpy in such fine weather, Bloglodytes.  Must be the donut deficiency talking...

Windows.

No excuse. I always think that if I can find a peaceful place, where there are no "you suck" messages seeping out of the walls or the internet or the phone, then I will be able to scrape myself together long enough to write something publishable. I know I am repeating myself here, but it is really frustrating when all the writing teachers say "it's great! don't know what you could change!" and all the publishers say "form rejection." (ok, a couple said "it's highly creative/original/had fun with it BUT," which is better than "fr," i admit.)

*Anyway,* (I seem to have a severe case of the post holiday babbles, here) above is the view from my office window, as of this morning. Note the violas, the nasturtiums, the cool welded chain sculpture in the neighbour's garden (big wooden thing is neighbour's house). And check out the picture below that, the view from our holiday cottage. There were grapes growing inside the winter garden there. Grapes!

I ought to be writing fucking masterpieces. I mean, any normal writer would have written a Pulitzer prize winner or a Nobel candidate by now! (I would just like to record that the temptation to go off on another HHGTTG babble here is almost overwhelming. Instead, you can see what I would have babbled about the idea of "normal" here, at about 1:30.) Just look at those views! You should see the view from my office when the roses are blooming!

Still. There is something amazing about windows. I love their symbolism. Not the "normal" exit. A hole built into a structure to let in light, or air, or chase a stray bee out of. But not for people. The temptation to climb out the window and not the door just to see if it changes anything, to see if I wind up in a different place, is very strong.

The Big Whine

Maybe I should just cross out 'writer.' It would take some of the pressure off. Or 'Artist.' Nevermind that these are things I have always wanted to do, and have always enjoyed doing. But my attempts to get published (and actually, my attempts to even get an education as a writer) have been frustrating. I know it takes a long time. I know it takes a Teflon-coated solid steel heart. I find it so difficult, though, when I'm never even sure I'm on the right track.

At the moment, it's more like a hollow heart. Like the next person who manages to hit it, it's going to go "BONG." (and echo a lot.)

Pout. I need a hug.
Then I need a writing teacher who actually knows what he/she is doing.

Lost For Words

I don't have much to say at the moment. I am grumpy and trying to figure out what I need to do. Now that I'd decided once and for all to write and *only* write this autumn, my favourite and extremely excellent former teacher and sent me a letter, asking for a few more students to fill up his life drawing class which is in danger of being cancelled. So now that I've said I will only write, I have this to post:

I think it's the first time Middlekid has held still long enough for me to do a scribble.

Doubts.

My follow through is very poor. I have had this epiphany, you see. I get praise from my teachers for the bits and scenes I hand in as the answers to writing exercises, and if I do say so myself, they are pretty good. But it all seems to fall apart when I try to make something longer. Like, say, a plot. I can make characters. Description that blends in naturally and logically- what I mean is, there isn't really any; I just tell people what they need to know, and nothing they don't need to know. Dialogue? No problem.
But then something needs to happen. The characters need to change somehow. Grow. Fight. Why can't I do that? It makes me feel so short sighted and makes me wonder if I have some fundamental character flaw that stops me being able to imagine these complex interactions and their outcomes. Or I can think of just enough action to sustain a scene, but I can't hook them up together. Is my brain as tiny as it's beginning to feel?
Am I the only one with this problem?
Am I the only one reading this blog?