I was gently invited to take part of this blog hop by Lynn Lamb, the author of the post-apocalyptic Survivor Diaries Series, The Oxymoron of Still Life, a Short Story Anthology, and Mechaniclism, an Apocalyptic~Horror Novella.
Pet Peeves. We all have them, and while they might be small annoyances as the saying suggests, they might have a great impact.
For example, I was invited to write this post the 3rd of November. In the grand scheme of things, when people are gonna read this, the delay of me writing it would not matter anymore. But to me, it matters, and I apologise; mostly, this speaks of my greatest pet peeve. One so big that it’s not a pet anymore – if not one that weighs as much as the Iceberg that sunk the Titanic.
My pet peeve is all about finding the time to write.
But wait, I am not talking about just having time to do it. That’s a big misconception. It might seem, to the untrained eye, that I have plenty of time available – after all, I do have all my weekends to myself, and a good amount of the evenings. I have the time to write. Right?
That’s because time is not enough to write. I know a lot of my colleagues will disagree with me, and complain they don’t have enough time. Well, while this statement might hold true to many, it is not completely correct for me. Time alone is not a friend of the writer; if you leave a writer alone in his house for a full weekend, what he’ll probably do is anything else but write. I know that lately I want to play video games more than I want to write.
Time is not what I miss. What I miss is routine.
I have written two books so far – one is the short story collection Of Life, Death, Aliens and Zombies, and the second one is my yet-to-be-published novel, Dead Men Naked. To write those books I didn’t need much time (well, I did), but I did need a routine. To write Dead Men Naked, I used to wake up every morning at 6, drink an espresso, meditate, and then write until my wife would come in the living room before starting our day.
The first days I did that were terrible. I would wake up tired, and have very little words to write; but then the habit formed, and like magic, the words came by themselves. That’s because the soul is like a lake; you need its water to be still to see the depths of it.
And from the depths come the words.
So now that we’re in the joyful season, all my habits are gone; there’s friends to meet, gifts to prepare, and plenty of other things to arrange. And while I do love all of those things, there’s a price to pay; this price is the habit – because it’s only from the dull and ordinary that the extraordinary can be born.
Routine is a writer’s best friend.