Writing when you're single, Part Two

The Writing When You're Single series continues... this one's a two-fer!

#2 Writing on date night, and writing with a broken heart

What about weekend nights—do you ever feel guilty for staying in to write if nothing else comes up?

For this one, first let’s debunk the idea of singlehood being a pathetic or less-than state of existence. I’m not a romance guru; I’ll refer you to one of my favorite dating bloggers at the moment: Natalie Lue with Baggage Reclaim can help you pull all that mess together. 

But, once you have embraced that your time is your own, you should spend it how you like therefore, and that you definitely don’t need to spend it constantly trying be out with a special someone on the weekends if you’re not interested in what’s going on one particular evening, nor fond of anything your friends are doing…

Writing when you’re single

Oh, yes I did draw a black
Wonder Woman with cornrows...

I’ve had some funny hehe (entertaining) and funny haha (oh, how embarrassing) moments writing as a single woman. Even as a black single woman, which adds another layer to what you may experience when you’re drafting your novel at home in singlehood, trying to explain your story-babies to folks at work, and even “secretly” sharing risqué fantasy fiction from beneath a cute moniker for your favorite video game… 

So, I realized it might be helpful and really, amazingly goofy of me to share how the single-writing-female thing goes down, for any avid fiction readers who wonder how it does all come together when real life is in the way, or for any other lady writers out there looking for friendly reflection from a fellow Diana Prince by day, Wonderwoman writer by night type of gal.

This will be a three-part series, so hold on tight! (You’re holding on tight because it’s exciting. Omg, are you still not holding on tight? You just hurt my feelings...)

#1 How the hell do you write good romances when you’re not dating?

Oh my God, so how many times over the years have I plunked down on the sofa at the end of a frustrating day of trying to work, while at day-job and not focusing on some guy who was great/letting me down at the moment, and then tried to come up with something noble, sexy

Get inspired by Daft Punk and Rolling Stone

How I rocked, ro-bot-rocked my way to feeling recharged about writing...

I get energized by really outstanding, super-weird creative people. And, Daft Punk's feature in the June issue of Rolling Stone was so goddamned satisfying for a fangirl like me. They cover everything I've been fiending to learn about: the helmets, three eras' worth of their muses, and the secret, new pieces that intend to break pace with current non-trends in electronic music.

Also, Daft Punk's new masterpieces should accomplish what they've done with music samples and that technological sound, "but with people"... Okay, so, at that point in reading, my goofy artist's imagination reeled from some kind of soylent green 'dear God, the riffs... they're made from people!' scenario (probably because these guys always dress like scary robots), before touching back to earth again when it was soon explained that Homem-Christo and Bangalter can rush through their studio mid-song to switch cables from input to output ports, or turn up one of a gazillion dials on custom made sound systems to produce a truly organic — from-the-soul sound that can't just be repeated precisely from one performance to the next. Wow, imagine an electronic music duo who isn't afraid to say that most music in their genre is "not deep, it's surface." Now, they're busting their asses to keep their own sound emotionally provocative.

Hrm. Like how I feel about breaking the black experience into mainstream fantasy-fiction... Ouch.

She's a Mean Old H4 Bus, Cpt 4

Chapter Four: Moi "Emperor Crush" Romero

Emperor Crush had once been a fat little boy named Moises in the fifth grade at Sacred Heart School, between Mount Pleasant Street and Park Road and also Sixteenth and Park. He and Charlotta had played in the Mount Pleasant soccer League together, both the yellow team, the best team. Every Saturday, for hours on la polvosa, the little kids played dusty soccer while their parents shouted and watched. Vietnamese children, Haitian kids, children from El Salvador, from the Dominican Republic, from the Philippines, black kids, white kids, kids from everywhere liked to play. Mostly, those playing fútbol were Latino with a few of the others on one team or the other. It was how the neighborhood worked out. The coaches coached in English, or they could, but they were happier and proud to shout directions in Spanish.

Charlotta and Moises were both fullbacks and they were both good. Once, Moi threw himself almost at a