I wrote with such enthusiasm for my writing endeavors in my last entry, so I thought it best to follow up. It's easy, I think, for a writer to wax poetic about the writing process before you actually sit down and DO IT.
The act of writing, romance aside, looks like this: I force myself to sit at my desk with my laptop, even though the thought of lounging on the coach is more appealing. The dog curls up on her blanket near my feet. By the time I set to work she's snoring. Loudly. If things go well and start clicking along, I can work for a long stretch - taking breaks for snacks, the dog, etc. If things AREN'T going well, the distractions at home are limitless, the very worst being the kitchen: instant gratification at it's finest. Writing rarely involves any instant gratification, which somehow makes that piece of chocolate all the more irresistible. Not to mention destructive.
Does the story just pour out of me and onto the paper, like those mystics in ancient Greece who transcribed stories whispered to them by the gods? Not exactly. If the words do tumble out, I know that those words still have a lot of tinkering and rearranging in their future - and many of them (even the ones I like best in the moment) may be cut entirely. But that's nothing to shrink from. That's the writing process. And the process itself--even with the occasional whining, the chocolate-eating, the fear of whether or not this project will ever get off the ground--is inspiring, in and of itself. Or so I remind myself when I feel the need to wax poetic.
The act of writing, romance aside, looks like this: I force myself to sit at my desk with my laptop, even though the thought of lounging on the coach is more appealing. The dog curls up on her blanket near my feet. By the time I set to work she's snoring. Loudly. If things go well and start clicking along, I can work for a long stretch - taking breaks for snacks, the dog, etc. If things AREN'T going well, the distractions at home are limitless, the very worst being the kitchen: instant gratification at it's finest. Writing rarely involves any instant gratification, which somehow makes that piece of chocolate all the more irresistible. Not to mention destructive.
Does the story just pour out of me and onto the paper, like those mystics in ancient Greece who transcribed stories whispered to them by the gods? Not exactly. If the words do tumble out, I know that those words still have a lot of tinkering and rearranging in their future - and many of them (even the ones I like best in the moment) may be cut entirely. But that's nothing to shrink from. That's the writing process. And the process itself--even with the occasional whining, the chocolate-eating, the fear of whether or not this project will ever get off the ground--is inspiring, in and of itself. Or so I remind myself when I feel the need to wax poetic.
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