This summer I challenged myself to post daily and write in my novel daily. They are more different than I ever believed.
Writing in my novel is done is dark solitude. Typing for hours with no outside conversations. Perfect sentences and amazing metaphors sit for only me to see. I battle with characters, plot construction and the art of dropping clues that don't look like nuclear bombs but are instead slight and elusive like a wispy fog. Each chapter is determined by me. I am the rule maker. God of the pages before me. Omnipotence is lonely.
This blog is a breathing beast. I write and it talks back in a range of voices. I post and link and before I know it the post has run off. Gaining in speed and wreaking havoc all along the way. Like a good nursemaid I watch its stats and monitor its health in amazement. Some days I think, 'ech...not bad' it thinks otherwise. I sit and bleed out my soul and the post melts away into nothingness. There are no restrictions. I post poems, research pieces, personal narratives whatever I am interested in for that day. It is very seductive. alluring me with a daily freedom of choice.
The summer goal fell apart briefly but the seductive call of free choice of subject and form have been pulling back at me.