DEATH IS ETERNAL #406

3,400 words

After a week of novelty, both for me and the newsletter, DEATH IS ETERNAL—and myself—is back to the comforting routine. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? A good thing! Although I thoroughly enjoyed the change of pace, I also find solace in routine, so being back to my everyday life is something that brings me joy. And how about you, dear reader? Do you find comfort in routine, or are you the type of person who can’t sit doing the same thing day in and day out? However, I suspect if you are a free subscriber, you’ll enjoy the return of the norm because that means a newsletter for you to read, not only an introduction. And speaking of which, enough with the beginning, let’s jump straight to the content itself.

Contents

1. A BALANCING ACT

2. Writing: the wall

3. Bye!

4. Life (from June 17 to 30, 2024)

5. Review #282: THE LOBSTER

6. The end

1. A BALANCING ACT

“Do you want to watch something?” Amy asked, putting away her blow dryer. “I’m almost done.”

David hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Actually, I was thinking about doing some research.”

“Research?”

“Yeah, looking for places accepting submissions,” he clarified, knowing she might be slightly disappointed but not upset. Writing was a big part of him, and she understood that sometimes it took priority. Amy, who cherished their time apart as much as their time together, respected his passion. Their independence was part of what made their relationship work, a delicate balance of shared interests and personal pursuits. This mutual understanding and respect is what kept their marriage strong.

Amy left the bathroom, her face a mask of practiced neutrality. “Okay,” she replied, her tone indifferent. But David noticed that her eyes held a glimmer of understanding. “You do you.”

“Are you sure it’s okay? I can do this later,” David offered, though he knew her response already.

“It’s fine. Do your thing. I have my own shows to catch up on. The extra time will be nice,” Amy said, her voice tinged with excitement. David’s focus on his writing gave her the perfect opportunity to indulge in her own passion.

“I love you,” David said, rising to kiss her.

“Love you, too.”

David watched her leave the bedroom and head to the living room, her figure disappearing around the corner. He turned back to his computer, the familiar hub of literary magazines glowing on the screen. He scrolled through the list, his mind sifting through past rejections and opportunities. This was his world, his passion, and he was determined to find his place in it.

The first link was for poetry. David muttered, “No, thank you,” shaking his head at the genre he could never quite grasp. The next two weren’t open for submissions. “You were better in the past, Hub,” he thought wryly, moving on. Finally, he found a promising site. He knew that finding the right platform was just the first step. The real challenge was yet to come-crafting a piece that would stand out, editing it meticulously, and then mustering the courage to submit it.

“We are open to submissions on an ongoing basis,” the homepage declared.

“Perfect,” David thought, a smile spreading across his face. He meticulously read the submission guidelines twice, ensuring he understood every detail. “Alright, this is where I’ll submit next,” he murmured to himself. “Now, all I need is an idea... and then write it, edit it, send it to my cohort, edit it again, and finally submit it.” He chuckled at the seemingly endless to-do list, his excitement palpable. “Things were simpler when I just self-published.” The thrill of the creative process and the anticipation of the final submission were what kept him going.

David settled into his chair, the familiar thrill of possibility igniting in his chest as he began brainstorming, ready to dive into the creative process once more. The blank page in front of him was both daunting and exhilarating, a canvas waiting to be filled with his words and ideas. He started with the guidelines, a seed from which his story would grow, and let his imagination take flight.

After what felt like an eternity, David finally completed his work, finding and choosing a place to submit, and reclined, preparing to delve into the creative process. He revisited the submission guidelines, again, particularly the “categories” section, where the heart of the story lay. David had always written from his heart, but now he was attempting to write what the magazines desired—a task that involved reshaping ideas to meet expectations rather than allowing them to flow naturally. It was a new approach, one he was eager to adopt.

As he read the guidelines over and over, David contemplated the type of story that would captivate the magazine’s editors and ignite his own personal passion. He understood that even a forced idea had to stir something within him, or the writing would lack depth and resonance.

An hour slipped by as he stared at the wall, his mind a storm of plots, characters, and fragments of inspiration. Initially, it was all noise—a chaotic blend of everything he’d ever seen, heard, or read. But gradually, a form began to emerge from the chaos, like a shadow cast by a distant light.

The shape was initially vague, just a whisper of something more. But as David focused on it, the details sharpened, the chaos transforming into coherent thoughts. The light drew nearer, revealing the outline of his story. He sifted through his ideas, discarding and refining them until clarity broke. The satisfaction of honing his ideas was a reward in itself, a testament to his creative journey.

“Phew, that was easy,” he muttered, recalling the times he had struggled for weeks without success.

Feeling a wave of satisfaction, he called out, “Hey baby, I’m done here. Want to watch something?” He knew an idea needed time to marinate and grow until it consumed him. Only then would he start writing. Besides, he was tired from travelling, and tonight wasn’t the night to dive into his project.

David was confident in his writing schedule. The magazine accepted submissions year-round, and another story was already lined up for his writing group. He reassured himself, thinking there was no rush; he could start his new project in a week.

Or so he believed.

Returning home after a week away, David found himself too exhausted to attend his peers’ meeting. He collapsed onto the sofa and drifted into sleep, much like an overworked father. Waking up disoriented, he chuckled to himself, “Am I that old now? Is my body finally catching up to my mind?”

His happiness was short-lived.

The organizer’s message came with unexpected news: the group decided to pause meetings for the summer. Two months without feedback loomed ahead, shattering his carefully laid plans and leaving him in a state of disarray.

“I’ll need to find a new group. Or a temporary one, at least,” David mentioned over breakfast, his voice tinged with a glimmer of hope and sadness. He had wanted to discuss it with Amy the night before, but fatigue had won out.

“Why?” Amy asked, spreading butter on her sourdough slice.

“My group’s on hiatus for summer. It messes up my timeline. I’ve got a story ready for September, and I planned to start another one this week for that magazine I researched.”

“Mm-hmm,” she prompted him to continue.

“If I wait for them, I can’t submit until October at best. That would throw off my Dan Bullock timeline. I need to workshop the tenth chapter before publishing it in October, and with the new story, that won’t be possible,” he said, his frustration evident. His dedication to his craft was palpable. He valued his peers’ feedback and knew it improved his writing. He couldn’t imagine publishing without it, but he also didn’t want to halt everything. “So, I either stop everything or find a temporary cohort.”

Amy paused, contemplating his dilemma.

“Do you really need feedback?” Amy asked, her concern for David evident in her voice.

David sighed, his fork idly pushing food around his plate. “It makes me a better writer. And I have due dates. So, yes, I do.”

Amy’s eyes searched his face. “But...?”

“But the last time I joined a new group, it didn’t go well. Now, I’m stuck.”

Amy nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“I can’t send Dan Bullock to a new group. It’s the tenth chapter, and without the backstory, the feedback won’t be helpful. That leaves my new story. But I need it to be my best work for the magazine, which means I need to trust the feedback I get. And there’s always that paranoid fear that someone might steal my idea. Imagine someone else succeeding with my work.” His voice trembled, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow, his fear palpable.

“Is your...” Amy paused, then sighed. “Of course, timelines are crucial to you, even if they don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. What do you want me to say?”

“Give me some light,” David pleaded.

“Look, I’m not a writer or an artist, and I’m not even a big reader. I don’t get your world. But I do know you. Do what brings you peace. In my experience, sticking to your timelines brings you the most peace. So, find a temporary writing group and go from there. That’s just my two cents.” She took a bite of her bread, her calm demeanour steadying him.

David’s lips curved into a small smile. “Do you know how amazing you are?”

“I know,” Amy replied, sipping her coffee.

“And you know what’s ironic?”

“What?”

David sighed, knowing he was treading on thin ice, the weight of his realization heavy on his shoulders. “If I had spent that time with you instead of burying myself in research, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’d only have one thing to submit, not two. So, my current stress is entirely my fault for prioritizing my hobbies over our time.”

Amy’s gaze held his, a hint of a malicious smile playing at her lips as she began to respond… but that’s a story for another time.

The end

2. Writing: the wall

Photo by Pete Willis on Unsplash

As I traverse the landscape of my writing journey, there looms an ever-present phenomenon I call the “insurmountable wall.” Inevitably, at some point in my process, I encounter this barrier. When it manifests, no matter how much I might strain and struggle, I cannot compel myself to continue.

This wall, though daunting, is not the enemy it might seem. It doesn’t halt my writing forever, nor does it signify the dreaded “writer’s block.” Instead, it serves as a signal—a forceful nudge that insists I’ve reached a natural stopping point. The wall doesn’t thwart my progress; instead, it decrees that, for now, at least, I’ve done enough.

When I reach this juncture, it feels less like a blockade and more like an intuitive checkpoint. It’s as though some internal mechanism clicks, and a voice within whispers, “You’re finished for today.” This cessation isn’t necessarily tied to the completion of the entire story but often aligns with the conclusion of a particular part or chapter. The sense of finality that accompanies this moment is potent. It’s akin to crossing an invisible finish line, one that marks not the end of the race but the end of a leg.

The phenomenon intrigues me because it defies predictable patterns. The wall doesn’t appear after a set number of minutes or a specific word count. Whether I’ve been writing for ten minutes or three hours, penned 500 words or 10,000, the moment arrives when I believe I’ve conveyed what needed to be said. It’s a profoundly personal indicator, an intrinsic belief that the current segment of my narrative is complete.

I often wonder if others experience this, too. Do you find yourself halted by an inexplicable sense of completion, as though your mind is asserting that a part of your story is done? I invite you, my fellow writers, to share your experiences—let’s explore this curious aspect of the writing process together. Your insights and stories are valuable and can enrich my understanding of this phenomenon.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.