We authors do some strange things.
We can hold full blown conversations with the characters in our heads. We have both disturbing and hilarious Google histories when it comes to research for our books. We’ll sit down to write, end up on a roll, and then four hours later remember we’ve forgotten to eat or missed that appointment. We can write an entire book or scene in our heads to perfection but when we stare at the Word doc to actually write it, we end up saying “wut r werds?” and it never actually comes out as pretty as we imagine it.
Sometimes we’ll try things out before we write them just to see if it’s actually possible, like ripping a thong off someone. (No I haven’t done that, but I’ve heard other romance authors have tried it before writing it since they weren’t totally convinced it’s so easy.) Other times we’ll make the same faces our characters are making while we listen to them chat away in our heads when putting words to a page. We have the ability to become experts on a certain subject in a matter of days since our character is an expert on it, because hell, how can we write their genius if we don’t know it ourselves?
We’ll wake up in the middle of the night with sudden plot fixes or brilliant ideas and then suddenly we’re up till dawn writing because it’s too good to go back to sleep. Showers and baths are our greatest moments of inspiration! Because, of course, you can’t write it down while you’re in the shower. There’d be no other logical time for those lightbulb moments to happen. We have the infuriating ability to say “oh, I’ll remember that idea or plot fix, I don’t have to write it down”, and then prove to ourselves a few hours later that we should have written it down. Yet still, we never learn our lesson on that no matter how many times it happens.
Yep. We writers do some strange things. We’re a quirky bunch, with a touch of insanity. I mean, sanity is overrated anyways, isn’t it? It’s much more fun to live in the realms in our heads!
I seem to have a trend of making Facebook posts when I write, things that I stumble across and go, “Yep, I’m definitely an author” for. I had another one yesterday while I was working on Fated to Darkness. I was in the middle of writing a scene in which my character was running from something, trying to get to a friend, so it was outdoors scene. I got about halfway through it before realizing I had completely and utterly forgotten what timeframe the setting was in.
My Facebook post looked like this afterwards…
You know you’re an author when you repeatedly associate your book’s month/season setting with your own present weather conditions and time frame, forgetting that they are not, in fact, in the same month, time, season, or even year as you. Which then leads to leaving yourself notes in your Word doc like this…
[SHIT. IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE WINTER. YOU NEED TO CHANGE THESE SETTINGS SLIGHTLY AND MAKE SURE TO ADD DETAILS OF THE SEASON — SEEING BREATH IN THE AIR, COLD WIND, ETC.]
I make a lot of these posts, actually, because I’m always finding something I do that is so a writer. Most of my posts start with the, “You know you’re an author when…” phrase. But occasionally I have some other goodies like these two from a week and a half ago:
When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain suddenly magically remembers the word you were looking for hours ago while writing, but couldn’t get it off the tip of your tongue no matter how hard you tried so you used something you weren’t totally satisfied with instead. Go. Figure. *Mentally throttles my brain* #writerproblems #onlywritersunderstandthefrustrationandpain
Trying to fend off a new plot bunny as an author is like trying to stop a flood with a piece of cardboard. I’m failing. Epicly.
I had another “You know you’re an author when…” post just this week after I wrote Mission To Write. Because only an author can turn a writer’s life into the story of a secret agent in comparison.
Sometimes I seriously question how my brain works. Other times I just roll with it like, eh, yeah, I’m not even going to ask where that one came from.
I’m quite curious though now. What things do you do, if you’re an author, that you can sit back at and go, “Yep, I’m definitely a writer”? How would you finish the phrase “You know you’re an author when…”? I would love to hear your responses to that question down in the comments.
In other news, I’ve been debating on branching my social media platform a bit more. Mainly, I’m debating on setting up a Twitter. I’m still a bit undecided though. Although there is another online writing site I’m half hashing around in my head to joining, since Wattpad is actually a complete and utter liar. But I’ll save those stories and decisions for another day.
In other, other news, I’ve been forgetting to shout out my accomplishments in #ThursThreads flash fiction for the past three weeks. The past two weeks I snagged an honorable mention, and today, on the last day of Year 4 for #ThursThreads, I achieved my FIRST WIN!
WOOOOHOOOOO! *Does a little happy dance*
(Seriously, I saw the notification of my win at work and smiled for the rest of my shift. I may or may not have squealed too. It’s really hard to get a win when there are a couple really good authors who almost always come out with either a mention or a win. So this definitely made my day. I feel kind of invincible, and proud.)
I’d love to share my honorable mention tales of 250 words, but I feel kinda weird sharing them so overdo. I swear I meant to share them each week, but kept forgetting. (Just like I’ve forgotten to share my Shard story to Wattpad yet. Whoops…) Perhaps I’ll throw them up to my Facebook author page just for fun sometime. Since my win did come today though, I thought I’d share my little tale to sign off for the week on a good note.
So here’s my tale…
Robin helped his mother through the doorway, holding one of her hands to steady her slow, frail steps. Once safely inside he guided her to sit at the rickety table, settling their satchel down on its surface.
“Are you alright, mother?” he asked with concern, brow furrowed.
She waved a wrinkled hand then placed it over her chest, smiling lightly to him. “Of course, dear.” His mother began to reach for the satchel of market goods they brought home, leaning her walking stick against her chair. “I best be getting supper started now. Don’t want the children to be coming home without supper on the table.”
He frowned, stopping her reach gently. “Mother… There’s no children coming home. We’re all grown up.”
“Nonsense, they’re all wee babes yet,” she dismissed, shaking him off and reaching in the satchel to pull out wrapped parcels one by one. “Where’s my eggs? I can’t cook without them.”
“We didn’t buy them, remember?” he said softly, crouching to her level.
Puzzlement crossed her features, turning to peer at him. Once bright blue eyes where dulled and filmed over from old age and fragile mind. He noticed the way her lips pursed tight and sadness touched her features in a telltale sign. Then the sadness was replaced with confused wariness and all previous thoughts were forgotten.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly.
His heart ached, holding her hands. “I’m your son. Robin. You rest now, mother, I’ll make supper. I love you.”
Lookie! I even get a really cool badge! *Grins*
Last of all as I head out, here’s what the judge said to my tale: I really loved the compassion of this tale. You can see the remnants of the elderly woman’s independence and in a moment it just disappears. And the sweetness of the son’s willingness to just take what was offered. Great tale.