Since time is so finite, I use a triage method when picking writing projects. Posting on the site occupies the bottom rung. The way I look at it, writing for the Internet resembles treading water–it probably doesn’t hurt, though it’s unlikely to propel me forward. When a post appears here, it’s after I’ve gotten something done on a manuscript. I may write a little, or even quite a lot without posting on the site, yet I avoid the reverse.

That goes double for commenting on other websites. For all the social benefits: the camaraderie with other posters, the nod to the post author, I consider commenting entertainment. Therefore it comes last, which in practice is rarely to not at all. Occasionally a topic resonates with me, and I’ll chime in. Otherwise, I lurk. So far in 2007, I spent about thirty minutes commenting out there on the Internets.*
Lately between edits for The Last Track and the draft of The Confession, I haven’t had much energy for the web. I think that’s OK. Energy levels fluctuate. Manuscripts come first. They must.

* Back in 2004-2005 I posted approximately 5,000 entries on a web hosting forum. I got paid to do this.

This afternoon the Wife and I attended a Couples Kumbayah reunion. Nearly all of the couples from the three day workshop in October returned for a six hour session. Good seeing the results of declarations couples made together three months ago.

Mental preparations for the reunion and yesterday’s entry really got me thinking about how much energy I invest in writing versus other activities. I use the word energy because that more accurately reflects the sheer effort funneled towards it; speaking in terms of time alone limits the consideration too narrowly. Writing takes more than time.

It takes focused energy, a very engrossing kind, whose lure is powerful enough to disappear within any moment of the day. In broad terms, it merely takes a moment of yielding to the imagination. One can develop or explore scenes far away from a computer or typewriter. And once a writer retreats to that place, time ceases to matter. The act runs as long as the writer stokes the fires.

Perhaps on the surface this may not appear problematic; it may not even be a bad thing. A fertile imagination and storytelling are blood sisters. Depending on the context, however, if I allow those same diversions to unseat me from the moment away from the screen, or if they prevent me from experiencing what the hell is actually happening around me, then writing becomes a distraction. I miss out on life.

How often does this mental disappearing act happen? I’m not even sure, though often enough for the Wife to catch me at it.

And that in itself, is very telling…

Open Office, besides being free and sporting nearly all of the features of Microsoft Office 2003, maintains a number of internal statistics, and one of them is total time a document is edited–a feature I wish I never found.

Since November 11, 2004, I spent 2141 hours working on The Last Track at a computer, be it a laptop or desktop. Assuming 40 hour work weeks, that’s 53.5 weeks out of a possible 113. To be more precise, nearly 1 of every 9 hours over the last 2 years and 2 months went into the novel. There were other projects during that period, too. A few short stories, the birth of a new novel, and regular site postings. Good Christ, I need more sunlight.

Obsessive as that figure sounds, it actually understates the true number. One aspect the utility overlooks–it simply can’t account for this–is the time spent off line with an electronic document. Like say, reading a hard copy.

Getting to this point also involved three separate feedback rounds: The Eight, Team Eagle Eye, and the Final Three. A considerable amount of effort went to preparations for, and into, those sessions. All of that work happened away from the computer. Taking such meetings into account, as well time spent reading the manuscript in printed form, adds another 2 weeks. I still have one more reader from the Final Three to consult with.

Not certain whether to laugh or cry…

Had the final feedback session with reader number two for The Last Track, and it left me supercharged, ready to tackle the edits. Amazing how subtle suggestions can alter a passage so profoundly, yet even more incredible is the impact of hearing feedback with an open mind. It’s taken nearly four years to develop a listening style that works. Luck played a part; I drew a great team of readers. As much as they added to the manuscript–and in sum the contributions are enormous–I gained a lot personally, too.

Don’t know if any of The Eight or the Final Three might comment on this point, but I hope I made you feel heard; I certainly heard you. Bottom line: you all made me a better writer. For this I am indebted.

Honestly, it’s about time more people discovered how skilled this crew is.

And I’m working on it.