
So this happened …



I’m back to Camp! I have some finishing of projects for Camp NaNo this July. I’m feeling in need of motivation. I hope the coffee helps.
I really haven’t done a lot of writing lately. I’ve been tired and dragging, taking lots of naps, doing a lot of editing of prior works. This means I have about 5 novels that I could submit today if I were in a submission cycle, two needing beta readers, and one that I will finish at Camp NaNo this year. Hopefully.
It’s been so long since I’ve written a novel start to finish that I don’t know if I can do it again. Of course I can; it’s only been six months. But when I write that down, six months seems like such a stretch. I’ve been editing things for that long, which uses a different set of muscles, as it were.
To be fair, I have almost completed a serial space opera of novella size, so it’s not like I’m not writing. In fact, that whole last paragraph sounds stupid if I take that into account, doesn’t it? It’s not like novels are a whole different beast than novellas, is it?
There is a tend to aggrandize novel writing over other forms of writing. I’ve never had anyone ooh and ahh over short stories. Novelists are a rare breed (hint: No, they’re not) and what they do is mysterious. So non-novel writing is, indeed, writing.
I must go write. Bye!
“I miss my new ship already,” Kel Beemer groused as the shuttle lifted off toward the Ridgeways. Her new ship, the spoils of subduing two slavers, had been detached from her former passenger/light cargo ship, the Stalwart. Before her lay Ridgeway III, restricted class beauty world. And beside her in the shuttle were two handcuffed slavers, their unharmed victims, and the man who got her into the mess. The runner in control of the shuttle sat rigidly, not looking back at his passengers. Maybe, Kel thought, he was having a rough day.

“We’ll get back to your ship,” her new partner, Brother Coyote said, his lanky height folded into the small seat. “What are you going to name your ship?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She ran her hands through her buzzed blonde hair in a characteristic gesture and scowled in her passenger seat. Kel could only imagine how she looked after a dramatic scuffle with the slavers. “Am I going to get a chance to freshen up before I meet the Prime Minister?”
“You mean the Convener of the Moot,” Coyote corrected. And smiled. “Not likely, but knowing my mom, she won’t notice. She’s never been interested in outward appearances.”
Kel grimaced. Brother Coyote looked a little rumpled in his order’s garb, yet serene, his staff across their knees as if it didn’t focus immense energies and create wormholes. His long blond hair had even fallen back into place. She looked like a shipper complete in jumpsuit and the de rigeur buzz cut. With her big brown eyes and diminuitive stature, she looked little older than the two chatting merrily across from her. She did, however, feel every hour of her 32 years, especially when about to meet the head parliamentarian of Ridgeway III, who was also Coyote’s mother. What a mess.
“I should warn you,” he smiled. “She doesn’t want me to leave Ridgeway III again, and will try to exert pressure on me to get me to stay. And on you, of course.”
Of course. This was going to be a trip to remember.
###
Kel expected a guard station at Ridgeway III’s port, which she discovered was named Port Serenity. Cute name, she thought, as the party whisked through the almost empty customs office with no difficulty.
Kel learned the reason why at the other side of the gate. A woman at the center of a small collection of people, dressed in a muumuu of deep purple shot with gold thread, held her arms out. Brother Coyote stepped away from Kel’s side and rushed toward the figure – doubtless his mother with her entourage.
Coyote’s hug enveloped his mother, who was not much taller than Kel herself, although much better dressed.
“How was your little trip?” the Convener of the Moot said in a warm alto voice as she held him at arm’s length.
“Oh, Mom,” Coyote said, “I need to introduce you to my partner.” He stepped back toward Kel, who checked escape routes only to find none.
“Partner!” Coyote’s mom exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d slipped your bonds for a partner!” She stepped forward to envelop Kel in a massive hug, and Kel found she couldn’t escape. The Convener of the Moot smelled like exotic flowers, and Kel smelled like – she didn’t want to think about it.
“I’m not that kind of partner –“ Kel squeaked.
“What am I thinking?” Kel’s mother exclaimed, letting Kel loose. “You need a bath and a good rest before dinner. Bojun, take Kel to the Statehouse and settle her in.”
“But Mom, where is she going to stay?” Coyote – Bojun? – pleaded.
“In your room, of course.” And she and her entourage drifted away in a cloud of frangipani, taking the twins and the prisoners with them.
A lion lived in a zoo

along with a hog and a gnu
“I could eat three or more,”
said the lion with a roar.
The gnu said, “shame, shame on you!”
A cannery worker named Stan
concocted a devious plan —
he threw the town mayor
onto a conveyor,
and that’s how the mayor got canned.
And the tree doesn’t fall,
Does anybody hear?
Too late, skip that,
Hey there, nice hat,
How you been, good day,
Wish I had more to say.
If the bird sits in the forest,
Keeps his song to himself –
Does anybody know?
No time, too rushed,
Gotta go catch my bus,
Still don’t know why
I don’t have any time.
If a forest lives
In the heart of a writer
And nobody finds it,
Does anybody care?
I’m trying to finish Kel and Brother Coyote Save the Planet, but I’m dealing with serious writers’ block lately. I’ve been doing marketing stuff in the morning (even if the things I have down the pipeline are stalled) and sleeping in the afternoon. This may mean I’m depressed; I don’t know. But I do know I’ve been staring at that manuscript and coming up with nothing.

NaNoWriMo, as I’ve mentioned in these pages, is a world-wide event where people attempt to write 50k words toward a novel in the month of November. Camp NaNo occurs in May and August, and it’s a smaller, less onerous event that I like to think of as training wheels for NaNo. You can pick your word count (as long as it’s over 10k) and feel free to work on something other than word count, such as editing. (Note: you can do that for NaNo as well, keeping in mind that 1 hour editing = 1000 words).
I’m going to put Kel and Brother Coyote as my Camp project (plus editing/plotting for another project) to see if it motivates me. Given that Camp (and NaNo) are a combination of gamification and camaraderie, I think I have a fighting chance.
Finishing up these old projects isn’t very motivating. In fact, I would really like to start something new. I just haven’t been inspired lately. I get motivated by relationship between people, and the short story list I have doesn’t seem to do that. (It’s very clever and science fiction-y, because my husband helped me with it.)
I want to write another novel. Real absorption into a world. But I need ideas for that as well.
If you have any ideas for a romantic fantasy, let me know!
I notice that the sunrise this morning is not really pink — maybe more of a salmon color, but that’s not poetic, is it? “The salmon-colored dawn.” No. Just no.
“Rosy”, on the other hand, is poetic. And everyone who reads the poem or prose takes the same poetic leap and accepts the dawn as rosy.

I’m in a writer’s group on Discord, and the caffeine addiction there is real. To the point where we talk about how we make coffee and what blend we use. And heaven forbid we skip our coffee in the morning.
I haven’t met any tea drinkers, but it could be a small sample size. Do you drink tea?
The same group of writers admitted that they too have self-doubt.
There are many, many romance categories. Superhero, bad boy, playboy, alien. Sweet, steamy, hot, erotica. Friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, boy next door, strangers to lovers. Science fiction, fantasy, contemporary, historical.
And because of my self-doubt, I don’t know if I belong to any of these.
Right now, I feel like most of my writing time is spent in marketing, and I don’t even have anything on imminent publication. I’m using The Kringle Conspiracy as my hook for newsletter subscribers, so that’s out. This is all a very strange journey and I don’t know how things are going to work this fall when I’m back to work.
Do you have any observations about yourself as a writer, or if you aren’t a writer, other writers? I’d love to see you drop these in the comments!

To be a writer is to be afflicted by crippling self-doubt. It takes only a Google search of “crippling self-doubt” to confirm this. It’s not surprising. If a writer writes for an audience, they bring their works out into the daylight.
If they’re showing their friends what they’ve written, they’re afraid of being judged. Because friends often skip over the Facebook post, they’re never quite sure if they’ve been read. Because friends are often afraid to hurt someone’s feelings, they will be wary of compliments.
If the writer submits for publication, they’re afraid of being rejected — and they will often be rejected, because their work is competing against others’ writing.
There are several articles on the Internet about how to deal with self-doubt. See here and here for examples. I don’t want to hash over these excellent articles, so I’ll write from my experiences and hope the advice is helpful.
Writers aren’t the only ones with self-doubt; it crops up when we have to speak publicly, at our jobs, and any place where we step outside our comfort zones. What are your solutions for self-doubt?
I was feeling in the doldrums yesterday waiting for a storm that never happened and frustrated with my lack of progress writing. Richard began to look for cabins at Mozingo (the city park some 5 miles away) but that’s a fruitless task in the summer at the last minute. I suggested trying to find a Kansas City boutique hotel on Hotwire so we could knock around the city.
So we did. And now we’re having a mini-mini-mini-MINI vacation (overnight) taking the Gangster bus tour and staying at the 21c, a boutique hotel formerly known as the Savoy. (thoroughly modernized alas). Hopefully, there will be a few good vibes that will help me write the remainder of my half-finished novel.