The Confabulator Cafe

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  • Motivational Quitter

    I’ve never had a moment in my life where I stared down at the empty page, threw my hands up in disgust, and declared that I was done writing forever.

    Now, having said that, I have to be honest. Nearly every day or, at the very least, several times a week, I quit.

    Pressure tends to build up slowly with me. I take on too many projects, or several projects converge at once, unplanned, and I end up in the middle of it all overwhelmed. Up until that moment, I walk around telling myself “I’ve got this. No problem.” Until it all goes bad, and the number one priority in my life becomes whether or not it’s time to harvest my crops in a Facebook game. (more…)

  • Break-up/Make-up Cycle

    I’m not sure what it says about my dedication to writing, but I give up quite often. At least once a year. Usually after National Novel Writing Month in November.

    When I write really intensively for long periods of time, I tend to burn myself out. I need time to recuperate and recover afterward. Sometimes that time is longer than I think it should be, so I get frustrated, and begin to doubt myself and my ability so much that I feel like it’s the end of my writing career.

    But it’s not. I’ve found that I can’t force myself to write during one of my breaks. If I do, the break ends up being even longer. So I find it healthy for my writing to quit for awhile sometimes.

    Not all of being a writer is about writing. We have to absorb a lot of the world in order to write, so I go into Input mode where I read and watch shows and spend time with friends and family and go on adventures to recharge my batteries and compile material.

    Then there is the more analytical side of being a writer. The editing. The submission process. My creative side of the writer psyche is ill-equipped to deal with those things because they take a detachment and a rational mind. The creative side has to take a vacation when those things are going on.

    So even when I quit writing, I am still working on being a writer. And even when I think I might never write again, I always come back. It’s too much a part of me not to. It’s in me. The only time I really feel like myself is when I write regularly. I miss it when it’s gone.

    It’s like a bad relationship, I suppose. We’ve broken up and gotten back together so many times. My life is incomplete without it, but sometimes I just can’t live with it. Sometimes I need a break.

    But my writing group never lets me actually give up. Their support and encouragement always brings me back around. And the fact that I understand this cycle now helps, as well. I am slowly starting to accept that I am a writer, even if sometimes I’m not actually writing. I’m pretty sure writing is my soul-mate, so we will always get back together in the end.

  • Sad, Walking-Away Music

    I have never quit being a writer, but I have stopped writing now and then.

    Bill Bixby in The Incredible Hulk
    At the end of every episode of The Incredible Hulk, Dr. Banner walked away. Sad. So very sad. © 1978 Universal Television

    Back in the ’70s, there was a live-action television series based on the Marvel comic book The Incredible Hulk. For those who might be too young to remember, it featured Bill Bixby as Dr. David Banner. (Yeah, it was “David.” Not Bruce. Don’t get me started.)

    Every week Dr. Banner would come to a new town where he tried to help out or find a cure for his problem. Then something — usually the bad guys causing the problem he was trying to resolve — would make him angry. Of course, Dr. Banner would Hulk-out and smash some things. After the bad guys were brought to justice or the family farm was saved, he would gather up his backpack and head off into the metaphorical sunset.

    Cue the sad, walking-away music.

    All this is preamble to explain why at certain times in my life I stopped writing. I never thought of it as quitting, really. I was just walking away — on my way to somewhere new. Trying to find the next chapter of my story.

    (more…)

  • I Can’t Quit You: Return of the Attention Whore

    I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: I am an attention whore. As such, it is hard for me to quit something that might garner me praise. It’s shallow, I know, but it works for me.

    That doesn’t mean there aren’t times when I absolutely want to quit writing. I definitely have those moments of desperate frustration when, more than anything else, what I’m actually doing is running away from writing. I have a classic love/hate relationship with the creative process.

    The meditative high you get when you’re on a roll and the words are flowing is an addictive feeling. At the same time, the dread of a deadline when you don’t feel like you have anything worth saying is equally devastating. And those times when you lie in bed feeling guilty about the words you didn’t produce that day are just agony.

    I freaking hate the way writing, or perhaps I should say the way not writing, makes me feel. At the same time, I crave that attention you get when you actually manage to do a good job. If even one person comments that they enjoyed something I wrote, I’m on cloud nine for the rest of the day.

    Feed the monkey, people, and he will dance.

    (more…)

  • It’s the Hard Knock Life

    Being a writer is the hard knock life.

    There is this image that writers get out of bed at around noon, get to the computer by one, work a couple of hours, and then take a nap. There might be writers that do this, but I don’t know any.

    Being a writer involves long hours, even if you make your living doing it. It involves self-promotion, networking, reading, writing, research, re-reading, rewriting, correspondence, rewriting again, contractual obligations, and God knows what else.

    In addition, a lot of writers, even professionals have day jobs. If you are a writer with a day job, you don’t get a free pass on all that stuff. Instead, you do it when you get home. After forty-plus hours at work, in the time when other people are relaxing or playing with their children, you are expected to be a writer.

    All told, you can expect to spend around eight hours on a polished three thousand word short story. If you manage to sell it to a professional market, you will get five cents a word.  That is $150.00, or $18.75 an hour. That doesn’t sound bad. You’ll see that money in six months if you are lucky. That is the best-case scenario. (more…)

  • Quitters Anonymous (Week Ending August 11)

    Writing can be a frustrating profession. Whether doing it for love or money, whether trying to get published or not, sometimes writers get exasperated and wonder if it’s all worth it. Rejection letters don’t help. Neither do poor sales for those who get published.

    So this week, we asked the writers at the Confabulator Cafe whether or not they have ever thought of chucking it all. We’re not trying to be discouraging to the burgeoning writers who visit our site. We just think the question is a relative part of a writer’s life and needed to be discussed.

    What about you? Have you ever considered walking away from the writer’s life? What kept you from doing so? Have you quit? If so, what made you come back? Let us know in the comments below.

    Until next week,

    The Cafe Management

  • Where and when would your own manor be?

    Over the last week, we introduced you to Straeon Manor – the mansion that the Confabulators adopted to tell our stories in. It exists in an as of yet undisclosed location stretching a vague number of years in history and future. We all have our own ideas about the perfect time and place to have a manor of our very own, and below you will find out where (and when) each Confabulator would have theirs.

    Christie Holland

    I’ve always been a big fan of this time period, personally.  But if I had to choose another place/time, as long as I didn’t have to live there permanently, I’d choose London, 1599.  I’d die to see Shakespeare’s plays performed in the original Globe Theatre as they were being written.  Also, I think it’d be incredibly interesting to see how other people react to them.  I know we think Shakespeare’s a big deal, but did they?

    Jason Arnett

    I’ve always fancied myself living in a country manor house in the 1920s, not far from a major city like New York or Chicago or Atlanta or New Orleans. A big, rambling place that one can open the windows in during the dog days of summer and the wind will still blow through, cooling as much as it could. The kind of place where there’s lots of woodwork, perhaps a secret passage, too; where I’d have to have a large staff to help maintain and run the place. I’d have parties to rival Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, too.

    Amanda Jaquays

    I’ve designed many “dream houses” in my head, and they typically all end up being manor or castle-ish. That being said, I’ve never really thought an actual place this would exist. It has always been a misty floating location. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere with trees and possibly a river, and most importantly… an amazing Internet connection. That last requirement rules out some of my favorite eras, since the Internet wasn’t around during the reigns of Caesar or Queen Victoria. So most likely, my manor would be in a contemporary time or maybe the future.

    Paul Swearingen

    I’ve decided that my dream location would be somewhere on the edge of the Flint Hills, on top of a gently-rising, breezy hill, so I could see 100% of the sky at night and approaching tornadoes during the day. It would be surrounded by trees to shade and cool it in the summer, and then cultivated fields to scent it in the spring and provide something for the breezes to rustle in the fall.

    Ashley M. Poland

    I don’t even think I want a manor — I can’t even keep an apartment in order. But I could see a modern manor just a little bit in the country. Not so far that driving to town is a trip, but far enough that naked hot-tubbing isn’t weird.

    Sara Lundberg

    I’d prefer a castle in Ireland overlooking emerald green hills and crystal blue seas, myself. Any time except the years surrounding and during the potato famine, though. Not a fun time for anyone.

    Kevin Wohler

    My dream manor would be in Northern California overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Other than Kansas, it’s the only place I’ve ever felt 100% at peace. Because I’m reliant on too many modern technologies, I wouldn’t live in the past (although it’s tempting to say the 1920s). With industrialization and problems with the environment, the present isn’t so keen either. I guess I’ll settle for some indeterminate time in the future, when humanity and nature co-exist in harmony.

    Jack Campbell, Jr.

    I would not have a manor anywhere. I have a general distrust of manors thanks to Algernon Blackwood, Shirley Jackson, Richard Matheson, Stephen King, and countless other writers who have shown me that owning a manor in any time or place is never going to end well.

  • The Dead Will Walk

    Butler’s Pantry — 1918

    The house was finally dark and quiet. The machine-gun-rat-a-tat of the clerk’s typewriter was at long last stilled. Captain Blackwell stared at the sheet of paper before him.

    “18 August, 1918

    “My dear Mrs. Culbertson,

    “It is with heavy heart that I must inform you of the death of Private John William Culbertson today of the influenza. Pvt. Culbertson was….”

    Was what? Blackwell had barely known the lad.

    There was a brisk rap on the door. Blackwell turned to espy Mrs. Lowell, the manor’s housekeeper, holding a tray with tea and a few sandwiches.

    “I thought you might want some refreshment, Captain, seeing how you’re working so hard and so late.”

    (more…)

  • Freedom Is Not So Easily Bought

    Straeon Manor - Kitchen 1967Kitchen — 1967

    “William, is this really necessary?” Barbara watches the movers heft the thing up onto her counter and frowns, one arm over her chest and the other over her mouth. Damn, but William is like a child on Christmas: leaning too close to the movers, examining the little knobs. Of course, that was William. He finally hit on an idea that paid off, and he began to bleed money.

    It started with moving in to this creepy old house — just because the neighbors were a certain kind of wealthy, a class of people who had been too good to hire Barbara to clean their homes. Now he was obsessed with filling it with things, silly and frivolous, to make life easy. She was getting smaller and smaller every day, with every new ‘freedom’ that William’s newly won fortune provided. She cleared her throat to pull herself out of that frame of thought. “It’s such an eye sore.”

    He stepped back from the counter and wrapped an arm around her waist. “It’s the future, Barb! Look at it. In ten years no one will use an oven at all. Do you have any idea how much less time you’ll spend cooking?” He kissed her cheek and nuzzled her close, as though they were sixteen again. “You shouldn’t be on your feet so much, once you’re pregnant.”

    Mutely, she nodded as the men handed some paperwork to William and left. The microwave, unfortunately, remained behind. Light reflected off the metallic surfaces — her reflection, distorted in the frame of the door. (more…)

  • QED

    The Upstairs Library 1955. Image from Beautiful Libraries.

    Upstairs Library — 1955

    “Pardon me,” the ghost said, “Always I am mistaken for Professor Einstein.”

    Electricity surges through the air and wraps me in a current of excitement. The papers on my desk flutter though the window to the library is closed. “But you are Professor Einstein, aren’t you?”

    The old man shrugs. “Professor Einstein passed away.”

    “Yes, I understand,” I say. I stand up. My fingertips hold the papers down, keep them from drifting to the floor. “But you’re him. You’re Albert Einstein.”

    “Whatever makes you think that?” That white shock of hair is distinct. Who else could this be?

    “Hold it.”

    A woman wearing a black suit is pointing a ray gun at Professor Einstein. I wish I hadn’t seen all those science fiction B-movies now, they didn’t mix well with the whisky. She’s almost as tall as me and her suit was tailored, her shirt open to show some cleavage. She had bracelets on her left wrist that clattered against one another and she was wearing two-inch heels. “Who are you?” (more…)