Off Writing
I'm gearing up to take on something huge. My head is having a hard time wrapping itself around the enormity of such a project, so instead it keeps me busy with mundane tasks instead of what I should be focused on.
I move around the house, thinking it'll be easier to focus here. No here. No, outside. No, too many bugs. Inside. Back upstairs I finally walk and then, once around the computer, I distract myself with checking websites I've already checked, reading articles I've already read, and watching Eli Mattson four more times this morning until my head decided hey, You need a Live Journal icon of this kid.
It's 10:30 and I've been up since eight.
It's not even homework or Rossi-work. But it's time to start breaking it all down, outlining, drawing up drafts and getting it out of my head and onto paper that's not littered with strange punctuation and sentence breaks. It's time for restructuring and editing. Time for falling in love with writing again.
I used to think that maybe I used that to save myself, emotionally, from a doomed marriage. I thought that was my escape. Once I got away and, months later, became deliriously happy, why would I need to write again? I don't want to escape. I like it here.
Turns out, that's not just something I can turn off. I don't just drive down a road every morning on my way to work -- I narrate my journey in my head and wax poetic about sunrises and morning dew. Sometimes I go further and fabricate a twist to the end of the same ol' drive to the office.
So, the other night, Bob and I went to the bookstore and we purchased some inspiration. I've read Stephen King's On Writing. I've read Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. I have the creative part down. I know the story. It's the structure and the pacing that I need. The drive to get it down. I need to stop worrying that it won't be perfect just as it falls down onto paper or screen. I need to write this like I write in my Livejournal -- with no editing and no cares. There's always time for that fine toothed comb later.
And then once I've got something -- anything -- the collaboration can begin. I'm excited. I'm also scared.
But I want this.
I move around the house, thinking it'll be easier to focus here. No here. No, outside. No, too many bugs. Inside. Back upstairs I finally walk and then, once around the computer, I distract myself with checking websites I've already checked, reading articles I've already read, and watching Eli Mattson four more times this morning until my head decided hey, You need a Live Journal icon of this kid.
It's 10:30 and I've been up since eight.
It's not even homework or Rossi-work. But it's time to start breaking it all down, outlining, drawing up drafts and getting it out of my head and onto paper that's not littered with strange punctuation and sentence breaks. It's time for restructuring and editing. Time for falling in love with writing again.
I used to think that maybe I used that to save myself, emotionally, from a doomed marriage. I thought that was my escape. Once I got away and, months later, became deliriously happy, why would I need to write again? I don't want to escape. I like it here.
Turns out, that's not just something I can turn off. I don't just drive down a road every morning on my way to work -- I narrate my journey in my head and wax poetic about sunrises and morning dew. Sometimes I go further and fabricate a twist to the end of the same ol' drive to the office.
So, the other night, Bob and I went to the bookstore and we purchased some inspiration. I've read Stephen King's On Writing. I've read Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. I have the creative part down. I know the story. It's the structure and the pacing that I need. The drive to get it down. I need to stop worrying that it won't be perfect just as it falls down onto paper or screen. I need to write this like I write in my Livejournal -- with no editing and no cares. There's always time for that fine toothed comb later.
And then once I've got something -- anything -- the collaboration can begin. I'm excited. I'm also scared.
But I want this.