I want to write now
I just finished Phillip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy. Usually when I read something that good, I want to stop writing: My god, I'm a loser. How can I ever write anything that good? Why bother trying? Who do I think I am?
That question, ah, that question reverberates through my life, doesn't it? Who the fuck do I think I am?
And here's the thing: That question, who do you think you are, that's part of what those books are about. More than that I can't write coherently right now, because I'm still crying over the books. Tears just flowing. But for the first time after reading something that good, I want to write. I want to write, passionately. I don't care if it's as good, I just want to write. In fact, I have to go to bed soon or else I'll stay up all night, writing, and then I'll be no use to anyone tomorrow.
I'm trying so hard to find balance with this writing thing, and I'm not succeeding. I'm hoping going to the writers space will help me with that balance, having uninterrupted time to really get up on the balls of my feet and write. D'you know, I've done all this writing in a house with two kids bouncing off the walls? It's not fair to them and it's not fair to my husband. And have you ever written an anal sex scene with a six-year-old pestering you? Bet you haven't. I have. (Don't worry. She can't read yet.)
I tossed off that little Shae fic today after the idea came to me in the shower, and I'm glad I did. It was a nice palate cleanser. I feel as if I have the center of "Intimate History" in hand. This is coming together, bigger than I ever imagined it could possibly be when I started, and it seems so long ago that I started, but it's only been a couple of months. Or my whole life, depending on where you stand. It scares me and exhilarates me and I don't care if it's not cool or right or popular to be like this. I've never been cooler than tepid my entire life, so what the hell do I care if I'm not cool now?
So who do I think I am? Baby, I'm a writer. I'm a big, fat, scary, scared, wild-eyed, overly-passionate, crazed and frighteningly inspired writer. That's who the fuck I think I am.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Ignore the question and just be it.
That question, ah, that question reverberates through my life, doesn't it? Who the fuck do I think I am?
And here's the thing: That question, who do you think you are, that's part of what those books are about. More than that I can't write coherently right now, because I'm still crying over the books. Tears just flowing. But for the first time after reading something that good, I want to write. I want to write, passionately. I don't care if it's as good, I just want to write. In fact, I have to go to bed soon or else I'll stay up all night, writing, and then I'll be no use to anyone tomorrow.
I'm trying so hard to find balance with this writing thing, and I'm not succeeding. I'm hoping going to the writers space will help me with that balance, having uninterrupted time to really get up on the balls of my feet and write. D'you know, I've done all this writing in a house with two kids bouncing off the walls? It's not fair to them and it's not fair to my husband. And have you ever written an anal sex scene with a six-year-old pestering you? Bet you haven't. I have. (Don't worry. She can't read yet.)
I tossed off that little Shae fic today after the idea came to me in the shower, and I'm glad I did. It was a nice palate cleanser. I feel as if I have the center of "Intimate History" in hand. This is coming together, bigger than I ever imagined it could possibly be when I started, and it seems so long ago that I started, but it's only been a couple of months. Or my whole life, depending on where you stand. It scares me and exhilarates me and I don't care if it's not cool or right or popular to be like this. I've never been cooler than tepid my entire life, so what the hell do I care if I'm not cool now?
So who do I think I am? Baby, I'm a writer. I'm a big, fat, scary, scared, wild-eyed, overly-passionate, crazed and frighteningly inspired writer. That's who the fuck I think I am.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Ignore the question and just be it.