author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

I feel an explanation is owed, as people who pay me to write may visit my blog and get the wrong impression.

All it means is, the stuff I write purely because I want to make a living as a writer. One happy day I shall make a living as a fiction writer, but for now I'm paying for my fiction habit out of my work-for-hire contract fees. (For instance, tuition to the Borderlands Boot Camp.)

Writers who simply write what sells, because it sells, are often disparagingly called "hacks." [Edited to add link to discussion: Is "hack" an insult? Was Shakespear a hack?]

Now, I don't seriously think I'm a hack, don't worry. And I think I do rather better than a hack job on my work-for-hire assignments, so my editor shouldn't worry.

But the lingo is in the lexicon. It's hard to resist using it in a sort of tongue-in-cheek, gently self-deprecating way. See? Profitable hackery. Writing done purely for the money.

So there you go.

Whew, that's better. My conscience is all appeased now.

Hullo. Not dead. About to collapse, however.

Have I mentioned what a horrible, horrible procrastinator I am? Yeah. Baaaad bad bad bad. Two months ago I met a work-for-hire deadline via a dire all-nighter enabling 15,000 words in 24 hours. Swore I'd never do that again. Next time I had a month to write two 15,000-word manuscripts, I'd be smarter and do a thousand words a day.

"Next time" would refer to the month ending about five minutes ago.

I, er, did it again.

*sigh*

At times like this I am grateful for having developed a solid relationship with an editor who seems to like the manuscripts I turn in. She's been pretty darn forgiving of my despicable last-minute-ness, even giving me sanity-saving deadline extensions here and there. Because she can evidently read my mind.

But I hate this. I totally hate the procrastinatory streak in me. It manifests as something like, I dunno, an actual-factual fear of the work, a Gods-damned phobia or something, and if I'm actually virtuous enough to try to start, my mind slides off the work like water off a greased tarp and I sorta fall into web-browsing or forum-loitering or just walking all over Gods-damned Boulder.

Yes. I have finally realized that my tendency to go cafe-hopping during a long day earmarked for writing comes from the subconscious recognition that I can't write while walking. I can knit while walking, oh yes indeed, but not write. Not non-fiction, anyway. Fiction, sure, I can brainstorm storylines, but non-fiction? Oh no. I get three sentences into the brainstorm and then I go all blank and start singing mindless tunes in the key of E minor.

And yet at the same time I get to feel virtuous whilst going for a 5K walk because by the time I get to Amante in North Boulder, hot damn! I'm gonna write! Yes indeedy! I am on my way to Being A Good Girl!

Then I get there, and I drink a Moriarti, rest my tired legs, and read blogs for the four hours allotted to the randomly generated wi-fi password printed on the little Qwest card.

So. There you go.

I am going to collapse now. The insane amount of writing done between ten last night and four this afternoon is matched only by the insanely little amount of sleep I got. So collapsing occurreth. Imminently.

When I wake up, there will be fiction doin's done. I owe a chapter 7 critique to one correspondent and story critiques to him and everyone who critted "Snowflakes". I owe everyone who critted either it or Golden Bridle the putting to use of their critiques. Revisin', we call that. And I need to get chapters 3 and 4 of Bridle ready for critique. And I need to read the stories of all my fellow Borderlands Boot Camp attendees. (Dude, I have totally paid my tuition for that weekend out of my work-for-hire manuscript earnings. I feel like suddenly I'm not lying when I put "WRITER" down on my tax returns.) And I need to crit a story from the local workshop I attend; that's due Wednesday. And I volunteered for yet another face-to-face critique session on an intriguing memoirish sort of treatise on storytelling whose previous version was very nifty indeed. That's due Monday after next. And I really ought to start a new draft of something, maybe the blue hallucinated angel story that's sorta growing out of the memory of an afterimage at Norwood and North Broadway. Hmm.

(Me? Overextend much? Naaahhhhh.... No worries, just a little bit every day until current projects are done and new projects spontaneously generate. You know.)

And then.

And then.

Then two more 15K work-for-hire manuscripts with a July 24 deadline. 1,100 words per day, starting Monday, will get me done by the time my plane leaves for New Orleans on July 22. I'll do this, dammit. I will.

It's probably getting boring to hear it, but I've sent "Turbulence" and "Heroes" back out again into the slush. Hurrah! I am being a Writer, yes I am.

Although I don't usually like to say which markets I'm trying until I get an answer back, yea or nay, I will mention that my first choice for "Turbulence" turned out to be a non-starter. DNA Publications's Fantastic Stories of the Imagination has apparently not been heard from in some time. Andrew Burt's The Black Hole has no data on them later than 2004. (Absolute Magnitude, on the other hand, has quite a rew recent rejections logged, but I suspect that market likes its science fiction somewhat "harder" than this story delivers. So I have sent it elsewhere.)

So there that is. In other me-write-fiction news, tomorrow is the beginning of a couple of critique periods for me. I've got the first two chapters of The Golden Bridle to be released to Critters.org, and the short story "The Impact of Snowflakes" entering the Newbie Queue at Critique Circle. If you're a member of either, I sure wouldn't mind the feedback. If you're not, but you want to read and comment on these pieces, it takes no time at all to sign up at these sites and dive into the queues.

And then on the work-for-hire side of my life, I have a June 19 deadline, so if I seem to get a little freaky between now and then, don't worry, that's just my standard operating procedure.

And for those who haven't noticed, the AbsoluteWrite.com Water Cooler (i.e. big huge honkin' 7000+ member forum) is up and functional again without a jot of lost data. All hard feelings against those involved in its time down should be sublimated into posting the 20 Worst Agents list far and wide, with the proper preamble attached and donating generously to AbsoluteWrite.com to help pay its bills and fund the legal proceedings. (The post at Jenna's blog is dated, but the PayPal button still works.) No mention of the persons involved in the ISP Which Cannot Be Named, we are told, will be tolerated at the Cooler. It's called "taking the high road," and it grates harshly upon still stinging nerves, and it's the best thing to do. So do.

Hit my deadline. Got paid. The world continues to turn.

Now... back to life as usual.

More later. Right now, running backups. Have you backed up your writing recently? You better! Go on--it'll give you something to do while I figure out how best to dance for everybody's amusement.

Hello all. Just entering minute-to-midnight deadline mode again. Deadlines which have paychecks and external pressures attached get priority in my schedule, even if they have nothing to do with novels and short stories. Such is life.

Will try to make time tomorrow for things not work-for-hire related, such as blogging about my birthday weekend (I'm 30! Hello, multiple-of-ten angst! ...OK, I'm over it) on Denver Metblogs (hello, Denver Metblogs! Did you miss me? ...No?), critiquing others' fiction as well as my own (hello, Golden Bridle! I know you've missed me), and creating new stories for publication and not (hello... ah, well, that would be telling).

And, um, paying the bills. Hello, the evil, evil bills. They sit in an evil pile on top the piano and they taunt me.

But nevermind that. Tomorrow is Ben & Jerry's Free Cone Day! We need a plan, you 'n me, a cunning plan to go and get us some! I suspect it will involve some strategic queuing up and waiting around on the Pearl Street Mall. In the snow. In the snow. Gods damn it.

Maybe they'll offer us in the Rockies a free mug of hot chocolate instead.