The part about writing that always confuses, the writing.
We write, because, well…it’s what we do. There’s nothing I can see myself doing for the rest of my life, definitely not my day-job. I don’t want to be slinging drinks at 50.
These books have gathered at my desk for an intervention.
They’re not in a pile, they merely litter my desk like paperback landmines.
One or two sit open, they’re pages alight in streams of fading sun filtering through the blinds.
I see a few of my notes about this, that or the other and find myself drunk from the new knowledge of outlines, plot and character dissection, which oddly sounds like some medieval torture.
I’ve never been fond of these books, but my writing, well it’s on the verge of discovering what landfill flies actually eat, don’t ask.
The headaches are back, the stress of not getting things on the page, when I desperately need the release.
The little synapses are firing, but there’s not much to fire into when the stories are stuck in a no man’s land surrounded by paperback landmines, gas canisters of regret and bullets made of that little gooey stuff that comes out of bugs when you squish them.
I see the books, they’re little bugs telling me to do things I don’t want to do. Outline, plot, character dissection and a myriad of other little things my heart doesn’t want, but my mind keeps telling me, “Listen up, it will help.”
My heart is torn between what my writing wants and what my mind knows needs to happen.
I’ve read all the books, done some of the exercises, but that doesn’t feel like enough tonight. The pillow calls, but I’d rather wrap it around my head with barbwire than leave the desk, because I’m a writer and I have to write.
The writing doesn’t come, it spurts and spills like fresh blood from an artery, cascading across the page in large arcs.
The arcs begin small, but then, something amazing happens…I begin to write.