A couple of weeks ago, I talked about confidence, and how I need it in order to write.  Sometimes, however, the confidence just isn’t there.  During those tremulous times, when to do nothing means failure, I fake it.  I pretend I have the confidence, and move forward.

It’s not just with writing that I do this, though.  I do this during swing band.  I’ll look at a part of music that I have no idea how to play, like a long section of improv, and fake it.  It’s amazing how often this works out.  We are capable of doing much more than we think we can.

In the last few days, I’ve found myself in a position where I needed to give some advice.  I won’t go into the specifics, because the matters in every case were private.  But in every case, the advice ultimately came down to the same thing: If you feel weak, if you feel overwhelmed, if you feel like your best just isn’t enough, pretend otherwise.

Be real with your loved ones.  Be real where it counts.  But when it comes to adversity and you need to move forward, the best thing you can do is set aside what you think is real.  You might fail anyways, but failure is not the worst thing in the world.

The worst thing in the world is letting a moment get away from you, and wondering what would have happened if you’d taken a leap of faith.

If you find yourself on the edge of a dance floor, wanting to have fun, but afraid because you don’t know how to dance… fake it.  Of course you know how to dance.  Dancing is easy.

If you find yourself staring at a sheet of music, with 32 measures of chords instead of notes, and you’re afraid that you’re going to mess up your solo… fake it.  Stand up, fill your lungs, and blow.  If you can’t play it right, then play it loud.  You can do loud.  Music is easy.

If you find yourself staring at a blank page, with your head full of imagery and characters, but the words just aren’t coming… fake it.  Write anything.  There are people that have written some really terrible things, but still managed to get some sales because, in spite of their malicious use of words, they managed to convey cool ideas.  You have cool ideas.  So write them down.  You can do it.  Writing is easy.

(Quick note: in that last example, if you’re one of my writer friends, I’m not talking about you.  I’m thinking more along the lines of L Ron Hubbard.  Or E L James.  Or Stephanie Meyer.  And if you’re fans of their work… great!  You’re not alone, but I’m not one of their fans.)

Fake it long enough, and you WILL make it.

Before I launch into another evening of delightful edits, let’s warm up with a blog post!

When I started this blog, I did it because I wanted to act more like a “real” writer.  I wanted to take my writing career more seriously, and many successful writers that I admire have a similar public outlet.

This is my open journal.  This is a place where I share my writer’s journey, taking note of the pitfalls I’ve discovered.  This is also where I celebrate some of my successes.  I’m entertaining the idea of using this as a sketchbook from time to time, taking writing prompts and creating some quick, light fiction here.

Sometimes, I want to comment on something that is more of a political or religious nature, and I stop myself.  I’m afraid that I’m going to say something that is going to get me blacklisted.

Stop and appreciate with me the absurdity.  I’m not afraid of posting my sloppy fiction here, but I’m afraid of posting my own, genuine opinions on real life in this place.  This place that I maintain, that has my name all over it.

It’s a legitimate fear, though.  Just read this article from the New York Times.  People have been publicly shamed for making jokes.  Lives have been ruined for quips taken out of context.  Is it wise for anyone to put anything real out in the public?

Here’s an example of the kind of thing I’m afraid to say here: I think Bill Cosby has been mistreated by our society.

“But Brian!  He’s clearly a rapist!  How can you say that?”

Well, for starters, I don’t believe everything, just because a large number of people come forward and say it is so.  In regards to Bill Cosby, it is uncomfortable taking this stance, because the allegations are about rape.  It doesn’t get much more serious than that.

Whether he did the crimes or not, it is not up to me.  We have a legal system.  The legal system may not be perfect, but it’s the system that we have.  When we go outside that system, we embrace vigilantism and anarchy.  I am not an anarchist, and I actually believe our legal system is pretty good, even if it’s a bit flawed in some places.

One of the problems with this whole situation is that almost all of the allegations point to a time well beyond the statute of limitations.  This eliminates the ability to formally prosecute.

Instead, he’s prosecuted in the media.  Bill Cosby’s performances are curtailed.  Honorary titles are revoked.  He becomes the butt of jokes, unwanted, and disgraced.

I don’t know if he did he crimes or not.  I have an opinion, but that doesn’t really matter.  If he’s guilty, then maybe justice has been served.  If he’s not, though, then we as a society took a collective dump on an old man that didn’t deserve it.

I want to talk about these kinds of things sometimes, but I’m afraid.  I want to talk about feminism, equality, responsibility, and the principles of our society, but I don’t want what I say to be taken out of context.  I don’t want what happened to Justine Sacco to happen to me.

I’ll probably just stick to fiction, and less controversial subjects.  But sometimes I’m sorely tempted to say something real.

I struggle to hold on to my confidence.

This is not something that’s isolated to my writing.  It’s a problem I face with my music as well.  Sometimes, it’s a problem I face with programming, with being a father, a husband, a decent human being.  The shadows of mind rise up, I grow cold inside, and I think, “I’m not good enough.”

Most of the time, I think I do a decent job of hiding it.  My wife thinks I’m arrogant, so maybe I overcompensate sometimes.

Sitting in band, the feelings of inadequacy sap some of the joy from making music.  But with band, I push on.  I’m not there to make money.  I’m there to make music.  Besides, if I am truly as terrible as I sometimes think I am, the band would just ask me to leave.  There are lots of sax players out there.

At work, I ignore the feeling more easily.  There’s too much work to do, and not enough time to do it, and there is money involved.  I put my headphones on, turn up the music, and just do what needs doing.

Writing is another matter.  I look at making money with my writing with the same dreamy eyes as someone looking to make money by playing the lottery.  It’s a long shot.  I can dream, and I can strive, but I’m not going to quit my day job.

So I don’t have the incentive of making money, like I do with programming.  I can’t look at the paycheck and use that as a numbing agent to push on.

Writing is a solitary endeavor.  With the band, there are other people, good people, right there beside me.  Sometimes I can tell myself to do my best for my band mates.

The only one holding me accountable with my writing is me.  I’ve tried to use writers groups to provide some kind of external pressure, but it’s just not the same.  In fact, sometimes the groups actually draw me away from writing, as I spend time reading work from the others in the group, and drafting critiques.

In order for me to write, I must summon my willpower, sit my butt in front of the keyboard, and go forward.  Confidence is my writing fuel, the way others might use caffeine.

For the last week or so, my confidence has not been there.  Part of it is because I was feeling under the weather.  Part of it was the editing I’ve been doing.  I’ve read some of the work I’ve done, and I’ve had to pinch my nose and reach for a figurative pickax.  How can I inflict my writing on other people?  Why am I wasting so much time?

This is where the real work comes in.  I have to find the confidence, wherever I can, and push on.  I remind myself that the parts of my stories that stink can be fixed.  I tell myself that it’s only a waste of time if I give up, and never show my work to someone.  I find the parts of my story that I haven’t looked at for a while, that are actually quite good.

And when there is some glimmer of external encouragement, I latch onto it and treasure it.  Jennifer Carson recently gave me a nudge on Facebook, asking where the heck my story is.  She didn’t need to do it.  She has lots to read already, and she is well connected in the writing community.  But she did, and I find it difficult to describe how much I appreciate it.  It was a lifeline, when I was quietly drowning at sea.

To Jennifer, and to my wife, also wondering why my book isn’t finished, thank you.  I’m writing tonight.  I have a fresh batch of confidence to burn through.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m sitting in my “writing” Starbucks.  I’ve spent the last several hours working on The Repossessed Ghost, and I’m taking a brief break to gather my thoughts and drink a hot drink.  Life is good.

Life hasn’t felt all that great, the last couple of weeks.  Mostly because I’ve been working so hard at my primary job.

Don’t get me wrong.  I really like what I do, and derive a great deal of satisfaction from the programming I’m doing.  I’m creating software that I can be proud of, that’s contributing to the bottom line of my company.  And I’m paid well, and (more importantly) appreciated for my hard work.

Nevertheless, I worked about 120 hours the last two weeks.  I burned the midnight oil, and when I ran out of that fuel, I started setting other things on fire.

Note that I volunteered this time.  I’m a salaried employee, and no one is compelling me to work longer than normal hours.  I’m doing this because I believe strongly in the work that I’m doing, and I want the projects I’m working on to meet their deadline.

But there are only so many hours in the day, and spending that much time at work means I’m spending less time doing other things.  Unfortunately, one of the first things that gets thrown out is my writing.

I continue to save Wednesday nights for writing, and I continued to show up.  But for me, it takes a little bit more than just putting myself in front of the keyboard.  For me, writing is an act of will.  I need to be able to make decisions, find words, and push through all of the anxiety and fear that surrounds my inner editor fills my head with.  In order for me to write, I have to be able to harness my willpower.

When I have burned through all of my energy at work, and I find myself unable to write in the evening, a terrible thought floats through my brain.

“A real writer is compelled to write.  If you were a real writer, you would be writing.”

There’s some truth to that, but it’s also bullshit.  If you just exhausted yourself helping someone move a piano, you can’t expect your next workout to be great.  If you just spent an hour and a half shouting at a concert, you can’t expect your singing voice to be pristine.

Or if you’re like me, and you just spent 10 to 12 hours at work, doing complicated equations and holding entire systems in your head, you shouldn’t expect your writing to come easily, or be stellar.

This all sounds like an elaborate excuse.  It sounds like a doctored up, “I can’t write right now.  I’m too tired.”

Only you can know if you’re bullshitting yourself or not.  Or, if you’re like me and it’s difficult to tell, put yourself in front of the keyboard and try to write.  If it hurts, maybe you’ve strained something and you need to take a break.  If it doesn’t, then keep going.  You’ve successfully dodged self-deluding yourself into not writing.  Reward yourself with more (or better) words in your manuscript!

Okay, break time is over.  Time to harness my willpower and turn my imagination into shareable words.

It’s a lovely Wednesday evening.  Melissa has joined me at the writing Starbucks.  I’m getting ready to dive into editing another chapter or two.  Before I open up Scrivener, I want to talk about strong emotions and writing.

I’ve heard people say that when you’re in the clutch of strong emotion, you should write.  You should channel those feelings into prose, pouring whatever sorrow or joy that’s infecting you onto the page.

Maybe that works for some people, but it doesn’t really work for me.  When I’m particularly angry, as I am this evening, I find the emotion to be as distracting as someone playing loud music next to me.

Why am I angry tonight?  It’s mostly a collection of little things.  I’m a little bit tired.  I’m a little bit hungry.  I ran into a little bit more traffic than I wanted to.  And of course, work has been really busy lately.  I shine under that kind of pressure, but pressure can sometimes generate heat.  For me, heat often means anger.  And I’m feeling it.

Whether it was anger, sorrow, elation, or anticipation, I don’t want too much of it when I’m writing, because when I write, I want to concentrate.  I want to be able to focus and find the right words.

So what do I do when I’m coming into a writing session with a head and heart full of noise?  Honestly, most of the time, I abandon the writing.  I’m good at compartmentalizing, but if I do it too much, I’ll reach a point where the emotions are going to get out when I don’t want them to.  So instead of suppressing, I do something else.  I play a video game.  I surf YouTube.  I drink a beer.  I ride it out.

Tonight, I’m doing something different.  I’m telling you all that I’m a raging tornado tonight, full of fury and cacophony.  This simultaneously gets me warmed up for writing, while also releasing some of the pressure.  I’m almost done with this post, and already the winds of my anger are slowed from throwing mobile homes around to holding kite strings taut.

Maybe I’ll write a story someday where I can just channel the emotions directly onto the page.  I don’t think so, though.  My thoughts have many voices, and the ones with all the nice, descriptive words are difficult to hear when so many others are howling.

Happy New Year!

I’ve remained a bit distant in social media, and silent on my blog, but I haven’t been idle.  I’ve been busy programming at work.  I’ve also been busy with music.

I didn’t realize how much I’d been anticipating playing the New Year’s performance with the River City Swing Band.  It was your typical mixture of fear and excitement.  We played four sets, which wound up being almost every song in our book.

Performing in front of people doesn’t bother me.  In fact, I feel fantastic being on stage.  I once told someone that I’m quite comfortable performing, but I realize that’s not quite true.  I enjoy that particular flavor of discomfort.  When that extra pressure to focus and perform is placed on my shoulders, I shine.  I enjoy the energy of being in the moment.

We did a really great job.  The performance wasn’t perfect, but everyone had a really great time.

We had someone filling in for our usual second Alto, and he was absolutely amazing.  He was, quite honestly, a much stronger musician than I am.  He played really well, and it was great playing with him.

The experience of playing with him, and playing with the band, roused some of my inner demons of competition and feeling inadequate.  There was this quiet voice in the back of my head whispering, “This guy is so good.  Why don’t they ditch me and keep him?  It would make the band stronger.”

It’s a maddening voice, because it always sounds so reasonable.  It comes up with different words fitting the same theme with my writing.  It usually says something along the lines of, “You’re never going to go anywhere with this.  You’re not a strong enough writer.  Why are you wasting your time?”

Fortunately, I am getting better at not listening to it.  I’m not wasting my time with my writing.  If anything, it’s the best use of my time because it’s mine to spend, and I’m spending it in the pursuit of my dreams.  Whether my writing goes anywhere or not, I’m honoring the part of me that needs to write.  I’m feeding the part of myself that hungers for more than food.

As for the band?  They seem to be happy with me, and we’re making really fantastic music.  If they ever ask me to leave, then I’ll leave, but I don’t think it’s going to come to that.

I’m not going to spend too much of my time worrying over fears of inadequacy.  Instead, I’ll practice, and get better.  I’m a stronger musician than I was a few months ago.  I’m a stronger writer than I was a year ago.  And in a few more months, I’ll be stronger still.  I just have to be patient with myself, keep my head up, and keep playing and writing.

This is a new year, with new opportunities to get things right.  Let’s make this year awesome, and chase our dreams like we mean to catch them.

Oh hi.

I’ve been a bit quiet here and in social media lately.

We’re in the middle of December.  Where was my triumphant NaNoWriMo victory post?  Where is all the news and excitement about my writing projects?  What the hell happened to Brian C. E. Buhl (or, for those of you that like to look at my URL and give me grief, Briancè)?

Well, it’s like this…

I work in the energy industry.  I’m not going to bore you with the details, but the energy industry is driven by state and federal incentive programs, which have due dates based on the calendar year.  That means that as the end of the year approaches, projects that have dallied suddenly become frenetic.  Everything has to be done immediately, and there is simply too much to do in the amount of time available.

I’m not going to make this a giant excuse post.  I’m just going to say that I prioritized the job I’m getting paid to do over the job I’m not getting paid to do.  Programming work intensified, and I had to cut back in other places.

It didn’t feel good.  There was a moment in mid November when I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to make my goal.  I felt it, and it was cold.  I became quite surly for a while, there.

But we’re into December, now.  Christmas is right over there, approaching like a boulder tumbling down a hill.  It’ll be upon me, soon.  I haven’t done any shopping yet.  I sure hope I get that done.

In other news, I’m still playing in both the River City Concert Band and the River City Swing Band.  Like my writing time, my music time has suffered some casualties in this busy work time.  I had to miss a concert on Sunday, and a practice on Monday, all due to work.  I have a performance this Friday, and another this Sunday, neither of which I’ll miss.  If you’re in the Sacramento area and you’re interested in attending, leave a comment and I’ll get you the details.

It’s not all gloom and doom.  I’m not an unappreciated wage slave at work.  They recognize that I’m working really hard and making sacrifices, and they’re supportive.  I feel appreciated, even though I feel a bit overworked.  That’s quite a feat, which says something about my employer.

So, I’m still alive, even if I’m off doing “real life.”  It’s Wednesday evening, and I’m at my writing Starbucks.  Michael is here, working feverishly on the next Dead Weight book.  It feels like old times.  It feels like good times.

This last weekend, I managed to make up some lost ground.  I wrote around 7000 words in two days, which is decent when you’re about 14,000 words behind.

But I still ended the weekend behind, and I’ve slipped ever further behind this week.

There really isn’t much I can do about it.  This is the busiest time of the year in the power industry.  Monday, I worked a bit late, and had band practice.  Tuesday, I worked a bit late, and took the night off.  Wednesday, I worked really late, and was too exhausted to even write a blog post.

Tonight, I’m going to a write-in at Richard‘s house.  If I can produce at least 2000 words tonight, and 2000 words tomorrow, I’ll be in a great position for another strong weekend.  In order to feel confident about succeeding this month, I’ll need to do better than I did last weekend.  With the Night of Writing Dangerously taking place Sunday, I don’t know if that will be possible.

There are side effects to missing goals, and falling this far behind.  Self-doubt creeps in.  As I was getting ready for work this morning, I let some of the despair take over for a little while.  I thought, “Maybe it’s time to stop pretending that I’m a writer.”

Then I stood up straight, took a deep breath, and let that thought go.

I might not write 50,000 words this month, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a writer.  It just means I’ve had a really busy month, and I’ve been doing the responsible thing, which is to work and support my family.  There’s no reason to feel bad about that.

The truth is that the story I’ve started this month might be amazing, someday.  It’s not right now.  It’s clumsy and misshapen, as many first drafts are.  But there is some really good stuff in it.  Whatever happens with NaNoWriMo, I’ve got something.  In spite of all of the craziness and business that is my life right now, I’ve still managed to start something beautiful.

And that’s what it means to be a writer.

It turns out I wasn’t nearly as prepared as I needed to be.

I was prepared enough to write a chapter, but when I tried to advance the plot, I found that there was too much I hadn’t thought of.

Last month, I talked about procrastination.  Due to a lack of clarity, my attention wandered all day on Sunday.  I think I wrote 500 words all that day.

Monday, I felt so bad about falling behind and freezing up, that I couldn’t even get out of bed.  I was depressed and angry.  I called in sick, and I didn’t go to band practice that night.  I thought about the story, and I privately moped in my garage.

We all have days like that.  Often, they’re Mondays.  I let the bad emotions have me for a day, then moved on.

Tuesday, I went back in to work, and I felt a little bit better.  I was able to step back a little and get some perspective.  During my lunch, I opened Scrivener and started figuring out what went wrong.  Why wasn’t I prepared?  What did I need to do to be prepared, so that I could move on?

It turns out that I hadn’t given enough thought to my main character’s family.  The whole first act is going to be with these people, and I didn’t even know how many of them there were, or what their names were.  I knew their.  I’d figured out their genesis and their religion.  I’d done a bunch of world building in advance, but I didn’t actually know any of the people that my main character was supposed to interact with.

Of course, I didn’t have time to write at all Tuesday.  I had to go straight from work to band practice.

I thought I would have time to write tonight at a museum.  It was the first night of a new writer’s group I found via meetup.com.  I thought we’d all be working on our Nano projects, but it turned out to be something else entirely.  They all seemed like nice folks, but it wasn’t quite what I was looking forward to.

I’m probably not going to have much time to write Thursday, because I’m going straight from work to play a concert.  I have 2 or 3 improv solos, and I’m playing music I’ve only looked at a few times.  I’m a little bit nervous about the performance, but it’s not overwhelming.

I did have a little bit of opportunity to work on my story today, when I took my son to the dentist.  I opened a new page in the Research section of my Scrivener project and started creating names that would be appropriate to my story.  They’re simple names, but it was taking me forever.  Now I have a list I can pull from.  I also created a family tree for my main character.

I’m feeling more prepared.  I’m frazzled and stressed and scared, but I feel like I have perspective now, and I think I can make up the lost time this weekend.

Those of you participating in NaNoWriMo, I hope you’re off to a better start than I am.

At the stroke of midnight last night, I started work on my new novel.  I was at a kick-off party, surrounded by a bunch of other eager writers.  Some of them have been doing NaNoWriMo for years and years.  For a few of them, this was their first year.

I’m working on the story now, and I’ll be working on it later today at a write-in at Panera.  My plan is to go to all of the write-ins on Saturdays.  It’s encouraging to be surrounded by others engaged in the same frantic activity that I’m enjoying.

Something I may do from time to time is post samples from my story here.  I’m really excited about what I’m writing, and I want to share.  This scene was a lot of fun for me.

Sim crept up to the blackberry bush, hunched over, eyes wary. He placed a hand on Dar’s shoulder. Though Sim’s touch was light, Dar jerked upright.

“Quiet!” Sim said, pitching his voice low.

“I thought you were Ursa,” Dar said. His baritone voice cracked.

“Ursa wouldn’t bother with a warning. She’d just take your head off and be done with you.”

Dar turned back to the clearing. Knee-high blades of wild grain grew within a stand surrounded by twisted, heavy oak trees. The midday sun illuminated the open area. Across from where they knelt, Sim could see dark flecks buzzing in the air. A beehive clung to the bottom of one of the branches, alive and churning with insect life.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Sim said. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair. Sweat dampened his brow.

“That’s what you always say,” Dar said.

“And I’m always right. How many times were you stung the last time we tried this?”

Dar ignored the question. He said, “Last time, we didn’t try to smoke them out first. Dillontor told me that bees go to sleep in smoke.”

Sim studied the beehive with squinted eyes. He opened his mouth several times, but remained silent. He could argue with Dar, but if Dillontor said something, then it was probably true.

“You should start the fire,” Dar said. He gestured towards a fire bow at his feet.

“This was your idea, mudhead. If you want the honey so bad, you can start the fire. Besides, I’m terrible at starting fires. You know that.”

“You’re not going to be much of a Waverider if you can’t start a simple fire, Sim.”

“I don’t want to be a Waverider,” Sim said, lowering his voice. “I think when my name day comes, I’m going to choose to be a Firedancer.”

Dar turned and fixed Sim with a level stare. Sim avoided meeting Dar’s eyes. After a moment, Dar turned his attention to the fire bow. He said, “You have to be the strangest Child of all the clans, Sim.”

Sim frowned at Dar. His friend was a little bit shorter than him, but much thicker in the chest, with broad shoulders and impressive arms. Like Sim, he was dressed in dark brown pants and a loose fitting shirt, tied at the arms and waste with woven bands. Like most of the people in their clan, Dar’s hair was nearly black, and his skin was the color of sanded oak.

As Sim watched, Dar pushed and pulled the bow with one hand, the other hand holding a smooth stone on top of the bow, steadying it. Dar’s expression was blank, his eyes fixed on the tedious work of coaxing fire out of thin, feathery bark and kindling.

With a sigh, Sim dropped down to the ground. He cupped his hands around the sides of the bowl containing the dried bark. A line of smoke rose from the bowl. The stream of smoke was so thin and transparent that Sim wondered if he was only imagining it. He drew in a deep breath and blew a slow, soft breath, trying to will energy into the spark.

A shadow fell across Sim and the bowl. The branch Dar had been spinning with the bow stopped moving. When Dar gasped, Sim craned his neck to looked up.

An enormous bear looked down at him, its coal black eyes unreadable. A halo of golden light surrounded the bear’s head where it blocked the sun. Its mouth was open, showing glistening, ivory teeth. A deep growl rumbled out of the creature’s throat.

“Run!” Dar screamed.

Sim rolled to his left. Wood cracked where Sim had been on the ground. Sim scrambled to his feet and looked back. The bear was on all fours, the blackberry bush crushed beneath its belly. Dar was on his backside, frantically crawling backwards. The bear was looking at Dar with hungry eyes.

“Dar, get up!”

Dar tried to get his feet under him, but the bear advanced a step towards him. Dar’s eyes went wide, and his feet went out from under him. He skidded on his backside, still pushing himself across fallen leaves and underbrush.

Gritting his teeth, Sim turned the other way. He took two long strides back the way he’d come when he’d first approached Dar. He found his staff where he’d left it, leaning against a tree. Weapon in hand, he turned back to face the bear. Sweat plastered his shirt to his chest and back.

Ursa, the bear, advanced another step towards Dar. Her brown fur was mottled in some places, shaggy in others. She raised her nose and sniffed at the air. Dar continued to back away from the bear, still unable to get to his feet.

“No!” Sim shouted. He ran towards Ursa, his staff raised in a charge. The creature ignored him. As Sim tried to get Ursa’s attention, she took another step closer to Dar. With an incoherent cry, Sim stabbed with the staff like a spear, jamming one end into Ursa’s ribs.

The bear roared and turned. It swatted at Sim’s staff with the back of enormous paw. The weapon left his hands. It tumbled through the air and clattered into the branches of trees several spans away. Ursa raised herself up onto her hind legs, looming like death.

“Mother save me,” Sim said.

And so the story begins.

I’m not editing my story yet, of course.  I want to get the first draft completed before I do any serious edits.  I did clean this up a little bit, adjusting a couple of words so that sentences would make a little bit more sense.

If you like me sharing things like this, please let me know.  If this type of sharing is a good thing, I’ll post some more excerpts I think are interesting along the way.