There is a problem being a writer that is often missed by the general reading public. Sometimes one becomes so immersed in the alter universe that is in the process of being born from the writer’s imagination, that contact with the face-to-face world is rather sketchy. When one adds age into the mix, it’s a wonder that anything gets finished. An example comes to mind. I play online chess with several of my grandsons during this COVID19 pandemic. Since we can’t play at my table, or theirs, online chess becomes the best option to find some reason to engage on a somewhat regular basis. Well, my grandsons have come to know that when I am deep into writing or editing, I am an easy mark. My attention span becomes very limited. Since the first of November, I have lost all but three games. One of those victories was against an eleven year old, an event that was quickly replaced by a loss that was brutal in execution.
Now, just so that you don’t get the idea that this post is about chess, it isn’t. It is about a tenuous presence in the face-to-face world. Well, to be more specific, my tenuous presence. I have just emerged from the alter-world of a future where children can go to space cadet schools, go to visit astronauts on a space station, and work towards being selected to attend the school at the lunar colony, the story from NaNoWriMo. I sent out the story to two pre-teens and got positive feedback, which then had me re-immerse myself in the tale to do yet another edit. Finally, after two edits, I felt comfortable enough to send it out for editing.
For almost a day, I returned to planet earth to be more present with … wait, there is no one here extra because of COVID19! I quickly retreated into another alter-universe, one that existed, in my imagination, 1000 years ago. It was a story I began years ago and never finished. Then, I woke up this morning, four weeks after my last post here with the intention of writing up this post for my scheduled slot here at Naturist Lens. I didn’t know, yet, that I had missed that time slot a week earlier. I had the time to write up a post, and I even had ideas for the post. But, I continued to slip into the world of thirteen-year-old astronaut want-to-be boys and girls.
It wasn’t until I saw a post already sitting in the “to-be-published” queue that it dawned on me that I had been missing-in-action. So much for good intentions. But With Paul being Paul, and Will being Will, I don’t have to worry about being kicked off the team here at Naturist Fiction. These guys are too nice for that sort of behaviour. They are so nice, I am ready to nominate them for honorary Canadian status. All that they need to master is saying “eh” and “I’m sorry.”
Well, with that out of the way, I can get to writing up this post for Naturist Fiction. Naturally, it required that I was comfortably ensconced in a proper location, such in my rocking chair in front of my fireplace, and nude of course. Then, as usual, I dither around with ideas until my coffee gets cold and needs reheating in the microwave oven. It then dawns on me that I could weigh in on some sort of serious topic such as the #GreatReset. What if that great reset was about resetting our world back to 1347 AD [an idea Annette said to me. Yes, that same Annette that wrote a story for Murder in the Nudist Colony]? I mean go back and redo our human story where nudity was the norm when weather permitted. Of course, I had to add this caveat as it is windy and wintry outside with the streets covered in ice. There’s no way even I would dare to walk barefoot outdoors, let alone bare everything. Still, it is a worthy idea.
A writer’s mind in action. It’s not a pretty sight to see. In actuality, it is probably worse to experience than watch. One of the greatest tragedies of having a writer’s mind is all of the forgotten cups of too-often reheated cups of coffee abandoned in a microwave oven. Of course, not all writers are like me. Some have very organised minds. Some remember things, have lists and spreadsheets that are actually used to guide their writing. Since I am a pantser [writing by the seat of my non-existent pants] plans are another one of those good intentions. [Oh, just a side note before I forget: pantsing is also an action that signifies pulling down someone else’s pants as a prank – usually done by guys in high school – remember, I know things because I was a high school principal.]
I see that I have done it again, gone sideways. If you have any serious questions about this post, direct them to either Paul or Will. They may be able to find me the help I need to recover my mind.