None of us lives in stasis. We change moment to moment, day to day. Writing does, too. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes not. When my first novel was published, I imagined I'd found the magic and that I'd just freeze in place and keep doing what had worked that first time. As if it were possible. Which, of course, it wasn't. Even if I hadn't changed from one book to the next, the story I was telling did change and demanded something different of me. I struggled with that. Still do some days.
The first book was action-packed. It had a lot of white space. Description and narrative were spare. Subsequent books have swung too far the other direction for my taste. So I'm working on that. While at the same time working on showing and inviting the reader into the emotional hits and . . .
Yes, my writing has changed. I'd like to think that what I write and how I write it is an ongoing journey of transformation. I don't know if or when my writing will emerge from its cocoon or what the wing pattern will look like. But in the meantime, I'm going to keep working on change and on painting those wings.
Now is the pandemic of our discontent made glorious treasonous activities by our 'acting' government; And the blade racism and brutality lour'd upon our Black and Brown siblings in the broad light of day now in our bosoms buried.
So not doing this for an entire blog post. I'm sure my main point is clear. 2020 sucks so far and if I could go full-on Karen and speak to the manager, I'd return this nonsense and get my money back. No. Y'know what? Keep the money. Just. Take back the covidiots and murder hornets. The rest might be manageable. Maybe. Instead, I'm stuck inside, working from home, with elderly, frail parents under my roof in a state where precious few people seem to have two brain cells to rub together to keep warm. Most especially about science. But okay. So I'm a little rage-y and angsty and anxiety ridden these days. Between the news and doom scrolling, who isn't? Honestly. I'm tired enough at this point that ending up like Richard the III, buried beneath someone's car park, doesn't sound all that bad.
The problem is, we're all emotionally exhausted, but few of us can sleep. Let me introduce you to Surrender Boxes. Surrender boxes can be actual physical boxes you use (search, you'll find all the New Age-y type boxes available). The notion is simple. You write down what's bugging you and you drop that into the surrender box, close the lid and walk away. Stupidly simple right? Well. It gets simpler. You don't need a physical box or to write anything if (also like me) you're uber lazy. Build a mental one. Gather up all the crap rolling around in your head. Mentally stuff it in the box, close the lid, tell yourself there's nothing that can be done about those issues right this second, anyway, and that's it. Go to sleep. The kicker is that it's effective. There are a few psychology articles available but for the most part they skate uncomfortably close to religions that are not mine that I prefer not to link them.
It's a great exercise to be tossing and turning in bed with a thousand worries and thoughts racing, then to gather those all up in a great mental armful and chuck them into cold storage. I'm in bed. What the hell am I going to do about those issues *right at that moment* anyway? That's right. Nothing. So surrender them. Pick them up in the morning. They're still in the box. Only. They'll have shifted and transformed.
That's the beauty of surrender boxes. They change things. I have a short vampire novel fast drafted. Beta readers all hit me on one major part of the story. I finally said, "I don't have the time or the chops to fix this." But it BUGGED me. Stuffed it in a surrender box last night. This morning, it emerged. Fixed.
Here's how someone else used their surrender box to build a sublime piece of art and The Official Theme Song for 2020:
