Blank pages

Just one monkey

Having a keybooad keyboard doesn’t make wiring writing go any faster.  It just means you type a lot of stuff over again.

I’m discovering, as many writers probably have, that there’s an appalling difference between writing a scene that someone may read, someday, in its most polished form, perhaps; and coming up with a blog post right this minute now.

All those bright ideas?  Wispy as the mist gathering over the field outside my window.  All that interesting research?  I can’t think of one clever thing to say about The History of Underclothes or James Boswell on the Grand Tour, or the fact that I was reminded this morning of a rich, tragic, firsthand resource on Scotland’s Rising of the ’45 as contained in three volumes of The Lyon in Mourning.

I’m not an archivist or an academic, with oodles of fun things that pop up at work.  I don’t work in a museum (though it would be a dream job!).  I’d hate to try to teach anyone else how to write, when–only last night–it dawned on me that my opening scene wasn’t working because I needed to bridge the emotional gap between my reader and the hero.  *facepalm*

But a blog isn’t a monologue.  It’s about starting a sort of dialogue, and making connections with readers.  And here, I’m floundering.  Because it begs the question, where can you and I connect?  What would we talk about, if we were in the same room?  What would you want to know, if you could ask me?

So please, come in, sit down, and let’s visit.  I’ll try to answer any serious questions posted in the comments section.