camroncuccu

My whole life, I've wanted to write long form fiction. I've felt the talent, knowledge, and skills grow to the point where it finally seemed inevitable: the day arrived when I believed I could no longer stop myself from pouring out pages of my heart and soul, from conducting friends and strangers on a journey into a world only I knew -- a journey for which I dearly wish company -- and prioritizing the nurturing such an epic undertaking requires.

Well, that day gave way to a long series of days where I was not in charge of my priorities, which gave way to a long series of days where I was in charge of my priorities but failed to allocate time and space to my brainchild. Much work is done, but far more is left to do. The bits and pieces are still there; the possibilities await development and refinement; the fledgling story begs to be rediscovered, to be coaxed into the light, examined, nurtured, and written written written.

It was anything but daunting when I began. Now it looms larger than life. I don't know where to start up again. When I sit down to try, all the voices raise up at once. All the roads on all the dusty maps jump off the page. All the scenes and all the connections among them stare back at me with their wealth of promise and their evident shortcomings.

I pick. I peck. I push and pull. I tease and turn inside out. I do write ... but when I'm done writing, I feel like I haven't made an appreciable difference, and suddenly it's time to go back to the day job.

A friend of mine suggested a writing group, but I have severe difficulty being open about things I'm working on -- not through fear of theft, or fear of ridicule, or any other fear that I can recognize. I have a lifelong habit of privacy, a need for privacy, in moments of creation. Maybe I'll go just to see what it's like, if I can make the time.

Meanwhile, there's this world in my head that writhes and rumbles in its need to be free -- no, to be nurtured and then shared -- so I'm open to all suggestions, particularly from those creative types who have faced the privacy challenge successfully.

For some reason, this time of year really makes my workday super long. I guess it's the bg buildup to the holiday gift season and all its accompanying needs. If I weren't on salary, I'd really love all these extra hours I work. Meanwhile, I'm really looking forward to this labor day weekend. I'm turning off the computers, the phones, the internet, the everything, and all I'm going to do is sit out on my porch with the cats and write.

Now that I've repaired my writing laptop, I've been slowly compiling my handwritten story notes and turning them into structure and substance. It feels like every major chunk of imagination I put into the story requires an equally large (if not larger) chunk of research to flesh out the realities of my imagined world. The story writing is the easy part; the research is enjoyable and not difficult, but it sure slows down the process of advancing the story on paper.

I'm not going to be that much nearer to finished by the end of this weekend, but since the next words have already been stringing themselves together in my mind, I know I'll have inked some great stuff.

See you next week!

I've had this laptop for a very long time - in laptop life expectancy terms, anyway. I used to use it for work, but got a faster computer that worked better, and found myself using this laptop exclusively for writing for, oh, a year or so.

Until this last December, that is, when it took an utter crap during the middle of my holiday travels. I'd backed it up, and thought it would be no big deal to just change my habits so I'd do my writing on the other machine.

I was so wrong.

I still wrote, of course; most of my writing I do longhand to begin with, including note-taking and dialogue. But I've discovered that I really depend on having the right machine to do my second draft and further editing on. And the other machine was totally not that machine.

So I took this thing apart, figured out what was wrong with it, bought a new part, and now it's working again. And my hands haven't been so happy in eight months.

Everything about this laptop just feels right. Oh, maybe the screen is way dimmer and the processor is WAY slower, but with what I use the laptop for? I barely notice it. The keys are soft, warm, and welcoming to my fingers. Even the wrist-rest area feels like it was made for my hands. It feels like home.

I've just moved all my writing files over, stuck all my notebooks into a backpack, and blocked out all my free time for hitting the coffee shop to catch up on what I can only describe as a wonderful but scatterbrained journey through this novel I'm working on. I've stayed in Dreamtime long enough. It's time to carry this thing to our destination.

Welcome back, old friend. Nice to be on the road with you again.

Jeez. I went to the birthday party of a friend who'd recently had a kid. It was nothing at all like any party of his I'd been to before. Mostly pairs of parents. Lots of kids. Mostly finished by 9 PM. I was the only single person there, and felt like an alien.

And this isn't unusual. These longtime friends were very different just two years ago; now, they remind me of other longtime friends who found themselves changing habits for the sake of parenthood. I can't blame them. I get it. But in my circles, there are fewer and fewer people my age who are, well, young despite their age.

If I were seriously looking for a mate, I'd feel like I was up a creek.

As it is, I usually feel like the only bird swimming in a turtle farm.

I just got a message from interviewer Isiah that the interview is online!

http://www.furaffinity.net/view/8531034/

Isiah co-interviewed me and Vantid, the illustrator who did the awesome picture for the piece. One quick excerpt:

Isiah: So, what made you want to write this as a poem, Camron? Why not a story?

Camron Cuccu: It had to read like a dance, not like a walk.

Isiah: Was there a certain measure of beats that you had in mind while writing this?

Camron Cuccu: I can't say I measured the beats per se. Iwas in a particular mood when I began writing the piece. I felt likemy insides were cavorting. Tail chasing, playing ... from my toes through my heart up to the recesses of my mind, I had a rhythm running through me, and the words jumped in time to meet it. That's how I write poetry: I follow my prevailing rhythm at the time. If I had tried to write the poem on Thursday -- sitting at my desk after the holiday with a pile of unwanted work to chew through -- it would have been a somber tale indeed.

It's a quick, fun read ... go check it out! http://www.furaffinity.net/view/8531034/

And, read more about Heat 9 here: https://www.sofawolf.com/products/heat-9 ... Because Heat 9 contains some adult concepts, you may have to click a button to say you're of legal age to read such things.

Most of the time, I have a workflow dichotomy between Writing and Editing. I am either in a mindset to Write, or in a mindset to Edit.

Occasionally however I land in a particularly special place where every detail is crystal clear in relation to every other detail. Inconsistencies scream, and are fixed on the fly. Fresh future possibilities stand out in their spotlight, and I can explore them while simultaneously editing the back story. Weaknesses quickly turn into strengths. Bland linearness gives way to lateral thinking. There's no true dividing line between editing and writing in this elusive sweet spot; the two flow together in a rough, blood-drawing tango of lust.

I've been there tonight. I've already made such sweeping changes, but I'm still excited by the knowledge that I'm about to occupy that space again. With a red pen and a black pen and an imagination trapped between the two, I'm going to live this story long and well tonight.

Also! Somebody wants to interview me about my poem in Heat 9! I'm excited and scared. If I like the interview, I'll talk about it here. If it doesn't work out well ... well heck, not like anybody's reading this anyway. I'll tell you about that too.

I just got my contrib copy of Sofawolf Press's HEAT Volume 9 ... wow! It looks great! The whole book looks great, but the bit with my name in print looks extra great, and with with great art by a great artist, IT'S JUST TOO GREAT FOR WORDS.

That was fun! I'm gonna do more (if they let me).

Words are flowing. Now the story cannot be stopped. What unknowns now lie in the story's future will be known when the future arrives. For now, the now is all there is (at least for the characters living it) and perhaps it's best they'll work out some of the details for themselves as they live it. They'll live a richer now, and know a richer future.

The deeper I get into writing the long form of this story, the more I recognize there are deeper forces at work in its construction. Research (and I don't mean that "oh I have to watch TV now" kind of research that mutes a lot of otherwise talented writers) and introspection, writing and rewriting, conceiving and reconceiving ... deeper and deeper, higher and higher. Now that I'm in conscious touch with the force of mythos that has driven my storytelling from day one, everything makes so much more sense. The things I've broken will again be rebuilt, as the new story rises from the ashes of the old ...

You know what I mean.

...For nothing.

Sure, I had a great time at the holidays, but while I was on the road my laptop began to systematically fail, function by function. I backed up before I left, but I was prolific while in motion. I stand to lose a lot of excellent writing (not to mention all the notes and research that went into that writing) if the thing went totally tits-up.

I hope to Samhill that I can recover this work.