ieva melgalve

So I’ve had a weekend that really reset my stress-counter to zero (not that I feel obliged to run myself down again). And I’ve added a couple of pages to the Flowers. This is good.
I’ll be going by tram to work again, starting tomorrow–but my son will come with me, so I don’t know how that’ll influence my writing.

The best thing is that I’m slowly backtracking to the feeling I used to have when I was very productive. I don’t know how or why. Probably it’s because this is a spell of good things in my life, even if they’re overwhelming me a bit. Probably it’s one of those pendulum things, swinging in and out of feeling good and at the top of things.
I hope that if I stay in this mood for longer, it will help me to become more productive, not just feel like it. But for now, all I’m interested in is… well, it’s turning Moleskine cashiers into small personalized notebooks. What? Christmas is already round the corner, isn’t it?

I managed to create three more pages for Flowers today, and thus the morning has started brilliantly. All in all, it seems that in those days when I can find some time for writing, I feel much better in the mornings. On the other hand, I’ve got my old anxiety back, and can’t figure out whether it’s because of burn-out at work or because of what I’m writing. Probably I should do some research, keep notes of my mental state vs what I’m doing. Or find a study on the subject. I can’t believe that British scientists research whether penguins trip backwards whenever a plane is going over them, but spare no similarly weird study for writers.

Be as it may, this week is approaching end, and I’ll probably have a totally free Sunday. (Saturday’s reserved for a job party, that counts as semi-free.) Probably it will be enough to sleep and rest and get myself back together. I certainly hope so.

I added several pages on All Flowers Must Live today, perking up a little sagging plot twist today. I am profoundly surprised at how easy it is to write comixes when I definitely don’t have enough in me to write something even a bit more substantial. The short dialogues and sketchy description is what I’m good at (that probably means I’m not very good at writing… but oh well, I’ll let that pass).

Anyhow, the story is gaining some eerie, sad and tortured shape that I like very much. And besides, a short writing session before a loooong day at work (long not as “boring” but as “overworked”) is better than coffee in regard of self-assurance and well-being.

(Also, my English is slipping gently away, eluding me eternally; and it seems that the same thing happens to my Latvian. That, too, can be remedied by having a weekend off.)

It seems that all I need to start writing is:
1. a couple of good, productive days at work to boost my confidence,
2. a morning tram to work,
3. a constant notice in the blog that I am writing, yes, I am.
So here I go.
It’s nothing much, just two pages on that comic, but, considering that I had to jump back on a long-abandoned train, I guess it’s not that bad. When I figure out what I wanted to do plot-wise (I’m so happy right now that I was actually writing down at least some of what I planned to do!), I think I will be fine.

Lessons learned:
1. Writing the plot down, even if it’s very approximate, or very “obvious”, is a good idea.
2. Abandoning writing for a while is not that bad, as long as you try to get back to it from time to time.
3. If you find a writing discipline that works, it’s not necessary to change it to get “more disciplined”. The goal is writing, not perfect discipline, so don’t fix it if it’s not broken.

Lately, I have been so busy at work, that I barely have the time to breathe, let alone blog.
However, there is something I can’t forego sharing.
A couple of days ago, I suggested my co-worker would love to read “The City & The City” (a book I’m switch-reading simultaneously with “Fool’s Errand” by Robin Hobb). He said that he’d love to but he has so many books in his to-read list that he simply can’t squeeze it in.
On an impulse, I said: “Oh, come on. Just read the interesting books.”
Don’t get me wrong, he is a natural born reader, and I am sure his taste in literature is way better than mine. I mean he is only reading good books, and books that are worth reading, if not for their quality then for their value as Educational Materials in Latvian Modern Literature. I think he’d be embarrassed to admit that he’d ever read light literature, you know, mystery or thrillers or, God forbid, romance. Even if he does, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t.
Me, I’m reading things that are an easy read. I read books with an engaging plot, and books that are the top picks in fantasy. I read “Soulless”, which, for all of its qualities, is not exactly a thought-provoking Literary Read. I read “Monsters” by J.M.Greer, and all my skeptic friends (including my husband) would cock an eyebrow on that. I read–well, basically I read everything that I can gobble up fast, and I don’t care if it’s something profound (like Crichton’s “Sphere”) or something merely curious. And I read a lot I don’t have a “to-read” list. I have a “books-to-buy-when-I-have-almost-finished-what-I’m-reading” list.
Well, all right. I have books that are in my “to-read” list, books that I realistically won’t touch any time soon. There are such books in every reader’s list: the ones that you “have” or “need to” read but never really get around to reading them. It’s good. Sometimes, after all, you do open that sort of books.
But what I think is paramount to constant reading is: don’t just read what you have to read. Read worthless books as well, read books that probably won’t give much to you but that will keep you entertained. It’s way better than not reading at all because you can’t make yourself to open another hard-cover, hard-content book.
Allow yourself the pleasure of reading. Just like you sometimes cook even if you’re not creating a culinary masterpiece, or hang out with a friend even if it’s not your best, or most valued friend.
Literature is not just about improving yourself. It’s about improving your everyday as well, it’s about bringing a new highlight, even if it’s just a tiny sunbeam, in your life.
If you read out of obligation only, you won’t be reading much, nor enjoying the process overly.
If you read for fun, well, some of your friends will smirk at you for reading, say, “Twilight”, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you had your fun; and you had new insights, even if the insights weren’t particularly profound.
Read what you love. And then, at some point, you will learn to love what you need to read–provided you really do need it.

I think it was yesterday that, at a panel on writing, people touched the myth of “writing is a lonely business”, with the similarly mythified (I know it’s not a word, but is there a word in English for “forcibly made to be a myth?”) addition “it doesn’t have to be”.
I remember my mother who used to lock herself in a room for hours because she was working (writing or translating), and nobody was allowed to mess with her. And that was what I wanted, that’s what I still want. To lock myself in and to cry a bit, and ignore everybody. That’s what I’m doing right now, or as close to it as I can get: not attending the party, sitting on a terrace, crying a bit, and wondering whether and how could I morph this horribly lonesome feeling into a simple fantasy novel about horse racing.
(Yesterday, I called my husband and, among other things, asked him what should I write about. Newil is shaping slowly and is becoming a horribly complex piece. I don’t feel ready to write it now, since I’m already discouraged by The Virgin mess. And my husband said I should write about horse racing. Predictably, I said “damn it, and screw you”, but by now I have a skeleton of a plot, a map, a Mary Sue-ish main character, a conflict and the stakes, so I guess that I might as well write it and see how it goes.)
Probably I’m so tired because I have de facto worked full time. I suppose that cons are meant to be fun and relaxing, but instead I’ve been soaking every little thing in, weighing it against my experiences, and have overloaded myself. It seems that I am quite incapable of taking things easy. Or, rather, that I can shape myself into that confident, easy-going, fun-having person, but this person doesn’t write.
Yesterday, Pat Cadigan told me that writing should feel good, and better with every time. I know that’s true, but I don’t know how to do it. (Probably by allowing myself to sit alone and cry a bit, and write a sad post, and then opening a fresh document and typing away.)

Well, the first day has officially ended for me. The others, mostly, are still drinking over there at Sohvi–but I realized I don’t want to get drunk if I don’t have my husband to curl up to when I get back, so I passed most of the fun. I have met horrible amounts of impossibly nice people here, and I’m probably simply overwhelmed with the experience.
Notably:
- lil Alma who reminds me of my daughter Lia, so I’m volunteering to babysit her when I get a chance. I’m talking in Latvian to her, because Latvian and English are similarly gibberish, and I miss my language a lot. And her writer parents, Sara and Marku, being The Perfect Family,
- Johanna, who is an amazing person having a lot of common with me (hence I like to talk to her, because I can pretend I’m amazing as well) and Jonas The Swedish Guy From The Basement,
- Pat Cadigan, who is The Guest Of Honor and yay, I went ahead boldly to have a two-minute talk to her, and had a whole writing-course advice stuffed into a short conversation from her (whoa!),
- Irma, who is Generally Sweet and, being my first impression of Finnish folks, has given me the best impression possible (and her husband Jussi who’s creating poetry of fridge magnets…gotta do this at home!),
- Johan, the Blond Swedish Linguist Guy, and his fried whose name I missed (darn! but I’ll meet them at finncon, so I’ll try to pry his name),
- Hanna who’s probably coming to Riga, so I’ll take her to the Real Non-Touristy places,
- Toni The Tattooed Editor who seems to be on his way on being hungover tomorrow, which is a real pity…but probably Tattooed Finns (most of the Finns are tattooed, by the way, and in really striking ways) don’t have hangover
- and Jarek and Saija (sp.?) of Fantasy Novel Names
- and, of course, Ellen and Delia, and Cheryl The Intimidating Cool People whom I have been gapingly observed (well, STALKED) for so long that it would be actually embarrassing to talk to them.

Well, there have been great panels and stuff, but the information is always available online. What’s unavailable online is the flavor of personalities, and challenge of actually talking to them, and, well, this acute homesickness I’m having. And mother-language-sickness.
But I’ll be home soon, and until then, I’ll savor every minute of this.

So I’m sitting in a bus (with a wi-fi connection), waiting to depart from Riga to Tallinn, leaving for Finncon. I think I’ve checked a hundred times whether I have my passport and tickets. Right now, I’m a bit past worrying and have come to a calm acceptance of my fate, whatever that might be.
Yesterday, I realized that this is actually the first time I’m traveling alone–which says a lot both of my sedentary habits and the enormous support I’ve had from my friends. Right now, too, there are may people who have helped me out with this journey–my husband and Russ, and Irma and Tiina in Finnland.

I really don’t know what to expect from my first con… Currently, I’m trying to set my mind in a “losing con-virginity is exciting and I’ll never have so fresh perspective again” route rather than “ohgosh everybody will think I’m a total noob, and justly so” one.

So apart from being busy at work, busy with (good) personal life changes and stuff, I have finally found my way back to actual writing. Not the scribbles I sometimes do or an occasional poem (gah!), but something that could be, umm, of some value.
It’s nothing big yet, not even grown to a zygotic stage yet, but yes.
It’s stemming one of my stories (actually, a series of stories) set on a bizarre&hazy SF world loosely based on Bible (it being one of the things I have never been comfortable with, even when I actually was a Christian). The story is named Chana (after the heroine, because I’m so original and creative), and I just typed it from my longhand-notebook. (Note to self: longhand is cool as long as you don’t want to show the thing to anybody else. For stories? Not so much.)
I am not sure I like the story. But I have the basic feel of the characters, and the mystery of this strange plane of existance with humans and lizards and the bloodless, and cyborgs and whatnot. I have the premise of the story, the grain of sand from which the story grows: an evil Buddha. Well, and evil Buddha-as-a-child.
I have his name, Newil. And the first line (one that will probably go away at the edits, but damn me if I’m going to think about edits now): “All the little living things should be cherished and preserved, for they are hard to duplicate.”

That’s a lot more than what I usually have when I’m thinking of starting something new, so I’m good.

(Also, I’ll have to have something to write on my long, long way to Finncon – it seems that I’ll be spending a full day on bus and ferry and train.)

So. The Final Turn is once again bravely headed to markets unknown. I love that story and I am not ready to give up on it (even though for a long while, I thought I might). Also, I’ve been catching up on critiquing, wondering where could (or should) I send Demonhunter that needs only a light editing and all in all, I’m somewhat back on track.
And all it took was a 30-second brief exercise of imagination, one that said, “OK, baby, tomorrow you will play a role of a happy, non-afraid, non-psycho writer, all right? Don’t worry whether it’s true. It’s just for a day.”