Tough Day Still Wrote

Writers often speak of the need to put your tush in the chair and WRITE.  Clearly this is inarguable. No writing can happen if…um…you’re not writing.

I guess the problem is that even if you force yourself to write, you can’t force yourself into inspiration. So the vast majority of what comes out is going to feel pedestrian. It’s gong to skirt the heart of the matter. It’s going to cling to the surface, and you won’t necessarily see the way in or below. And by “you” I mean “me” of course.

I am just going on faith that if I do ENOUGH of this sort of determined WRITING that I will stumble onto a promising vein and then MINE it (BLEED it??) for all its worth. I don’t think I found that today. But I still wrote. So I’m giving myself credit. 

3 thoughts on “Tough Day Still Wrote

  1. Perhaps an anecdote. Something simple, witnessed in passing? What you had for breakfast?
    How it feels to wait in line? Not expected to turn into the great Am. Novel…just pushing words around. Starting somewhere. Making a mark on clean white paper.
    Like doodling to a picture maker….. Forgive my interloping, your blogging/ writing jump starting has pushed my “brainstorming” buttons. :~) Carolyn C.

  2. Oh my gosh I totally agree! You sit and hope that inspiration will strike you in that chair and your fingers will magically start typing beautiful sentences. I can only write though when distractions are removed (kicking and screaming) from the room. Good luck!

  3. Hmmm. I wonder. No, you can’t force yourself into inspiration, but you know you want to write a book. That’s all you need. You can show up, expecting your muse to put down her mascara wand and get to the task of lighting fire under your belly. Sure. My muse? She’s quite unpredictable. She won’t show up for days and then poof! she’ll return from her meditation yurt, waking me up at three AM (smelling like patchouli) ready to tell me her secrets. I can’t rely on her or the elusive smoke machine of inspiration to get me going.

    We all look for some form of inspiration to manifest outside of ourselves, but what if all we need is inside of us, hunched over in the proverbial wet lump, ready to be coddled out? What if we’re the inspiration?

    What if you sat down untethered to the idea that inspiration will come? What if you relied on the fact that the story is in there, growing, and your job is to simply play with it by getting it out through any means necessary? (Sorry about the Bush-era language.) I spent a year of my own life not writing because I didn’t feel inspired. Waste of a year. My vote: tease it out however you can. Write badly. Write well. Write scenes without the expectation that they’re going to come out in a linear fashion. Grab a pencil and paper and go epistle-style: write letters to your characters. Write back as if you are them because–well, because you are them. Or they are you. “I’m in the milk and the milk’s in me!” Play.

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