It took a baby to make me do this. My baby. My Lena.
I've read enough books and enough online advice blogs and postings (which serves as a great source of procrastination given you can mentally write it off as "research") to tell me blogging is the way if you want to establish yourself as a writer. Even though this is going to callous my fingers and sting your eyes, I find it appeals to my thrifty side as being a cost-effective way to break into the biz as opposed to getting an MFA. Besides, nothing like a doing something yourself to boost your pride.
So here goes...
...
...I got nothing. Or rather, I have nothing which I believe would be of interest to you. My life at the moment is full of poop, breast milk, forgetfulness, dreams, smiles, and naps. My writing vein feels collapsed. What is flowing through it seems unorganized and, at times, foreign. Already I can tell this little beignet is altering my sensibilities and sense of humor. I guess we'll have have to wait and see what is on the other side of no sleep. Who knows, you may be reading a very different writer next year.
In the meantime, let me leave you with a little something. It's the first three paragraphs of the book I finished over the summer. It is so very rough. But any and all comments are appreciated. Yes, that definitely includes criticisms, but the most helpful ones tell me why you don't like it or what you would prefer. I may find time during the 3 AM feeding to pull my laptop out and work on this a bit if you, my reader, tell me your thoughts. I need them. Mine are so scarce nowadays.
Excerpt from Running Out of Road by Toby LeBlanc:
"His voice, carrying her name, echoes around him
every few footfalls. Jeff tries her full name, then the abbreviated version she
hates, as if its public utterance bouncing off the houses on the suburban
street might make her reappear. The calls become louder, more frantic as he
gets to the end of his block on 45th SW. His gut juts way out in
front of him and his legs, which currently feel as if they are made of lead,
seem to be trying to catch his belly button. Despite their heaviness, his feet
struggle to stay connected to the Seattle street. He struggles to stay
connected to reality.
His mind thinks about how this
probably one of her jokes and this one just isn’t funny. Maybe she’s trying to
snap him out of his grumpy writer’s block. He wonders if he locked the door
behind him. Maybe she just slipped past him and he didn’t notice. Maybe the dog
just made it home without her because he slipped his collar. But that old
basset hound is way to fat to slip his collar. Jeff sees an image in his mind
of his wife scolding the dog, Winston, with feigned irritation for running off
like that. The thought made him want to kill the dog for ruining his night and
causing this panic. But then Shauna would kill him if he killed the dog, and
that’s more trouble than it’s worth. He realizes how silly it all sounds and
just looks for his wife.
Still calling her name he sped around the corner and
almost tripped over a pair of legs belonging to a very unconscious human, half
shoved underneath a Douglas fir. Hope made one last push as Jeff attempted to
reassure himself that the faux velour jogging pants looked nothing like the
pair she was wearing tonight. He struggled with the idea of trying to check on
this obviously hurt person, or to go home where his wife probably was. He had
to look. The zippered top looks as if the attackers had tried to turn it around
without her getting out of it. The left pocket in front is torn. The victim’s
arms are strewn about her in the unnatural way which is congruent with new and
unreal universe Jeff now exists in. One hand lay over the eyes and on the
forehead as if even in her deep sleep she displays the emotion of woe. He wants
to know who the victim is. Despite her obvious lack of consciousness, he is
worried about harming this creature by scratching its face or the trunk or
hyper-extending a limb. With a strength not known to him, he pulls the body
upright to look upon a familiar face which strikes the chords of hell."