Late night writing
Virginia Woolf once wrote that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction".
Although money plays a big part in the reason to write, sometimes it's more difficult to gather the will to write. To have a room of one's own is supposed to solve this little problem.
It's been months, even close to a year, since I've written anything fictionalized. These days my concerns seem to revolve around everything pragmatic, realistic, "now". Especially for these past weeks, it's been terribly difficult to write anything worthwhile either because I have little to say or I don't know how to say it. If those two fail, there's still the fact that I have to watch what I say. These days, there seem to be so many responsibilities, so many things to consider that sometimes it suffocates me.
In a vain attempt to begin writing again like I used to, I purchased a small journal. Until now, I have not filled even a page with anything fictional... only to-do lists and details to remember.
I cannot seem to remember the last time I had a little bit of "me time". The idea now even seems absurd, and I wonder how I managed to have "me time" in the past. More importantly, what I was doing during these moments... were they truly worthwhile?
These days, it's become much easier to criticize published work. It's been easier to point out what could have been done. It doesn't take much to figure out what's been left out, what's wrong and what could be improved. That, of course, includes my own writing.
Often, I wonder how authors find the words to fill pages and pages with. I wonder where people gather the energy to spend countless hours in front of a monitor to read and re-read their own writing (before they send it to an editor who asks them to go through it again after certain adjustments). Deep inside, I know that it's passion, a certain driving force, which leads them to see their work to completion. Not to mention, the feeling of fulfillment that pervades their very being, so that they are constantly inspired to keep working despite the demands of their body.
I wish I could feel that way. But right now, I stare at the journal which lies at my side... I ramble on this blog, hoping that sometime soon I can write something truly worth reading... write for the sake of writing, for my sake, for the sake of being a writer.
Although money plays a big part in the reason to write, sometimes it's more difficult to gather the will to write. To have a room of one's own is supposed to solve this little problem.
It's been months, even close to a year, since I've written anything fictionalized. These days my concerns seem to revolve around everything pragmatic, realistic, "now". Especially for these past weeks, it's been terribly difficult to write anything worthwhile either because I have little to say or I don't know how to say it. If those two fail, there's still the fact that I have to watch what I say. These days, there seem to be so many responsibilities, so many things to consider that sometimes it suffocates me.
In a vain attempt to begin writing again like I used to, I purchased a small journal. Until now, I have not filled even a page with anything fictional... only to-do lists and details to remember.
I cannot seem to remember the last time I had a little bit of "me time". The idea now even seems absurd, and I wonder how I managed to have "me time" in the past. More importantly, what I was doing during these moments... were they truly worthwhile?
These days, it's become much easier to criticize published work. It's been easier to point out what could have been done. It doesn't take much to figure out what's been left out, what's wrong and what could be improved. That, of course, includes my own writing.
Often, I wonder how authors find the words to fill pages and pages with. I wonder where people gather the energy to spend countless hours in front of a monitor to read and re-read their own writing (before they send it to an editor who asks them to go through it again after certain adjustments). Deep inside, I know that it's passion, a certain driving force, which leads them to see their work to completion. Not to mention, the feeling of fulfillment that pervades their very being, so that they are constantly inspired to keep working despite the demands of their body.
I wish I could feel that way. But right now, I stare at the journal which lies at my side... I ramble on this blog, hoping that sometime soon I can write something truly worth reading... write for the sake of writing, for my sake, for the sake of being a writer.