Whose idea was this writing thing?
God, it’s so great being a writer! I mean, except for the anxiety, panic, mental blocks, fear, self-loathing...
No, no. I really do love being a writer. But I often strongly side with Dorothy Parker and her famed sentiment, “I hate writing, I love having written.” Finishing a book gives a sense of accomplishment like no other, and it’s what I strive for.
I mean, obviously. Hello? Who sets out to write half a book?
It’s the getting there that can be tricky.
My ideas start slowly in the back of my mind. A feeling, a scene, maybe even just a line that I want to hear a character say. And then I build an entire book around that. Piece by piece. It can take weeks or months for that initial idea to grow into a full-blown plot, and the slow pace can drive me nearly insane. I want to go, I want it done and over!
I have a fantasy that I’ll come up with a book idea, sit down at the computer, and bang out a concise, logical outline in what I envision as a studious, author-ly manner. I’ll be wearing a gorgeous Ralph Lauren ensemble. There could be riding boots, perhaps. Hair fabulously styled, yet still with the appearance of being casual. A thoughtful, diligent expression on my face as I focus and organize my ideas while poised at my mahogany desk...
Pfft. Hardly. Here are more likely scenarios:
#1. I’m driving in the car, and a song comes on. I feel something... pain, love, hurt, angst, hope. But I feel. My thoughts wander and become daydreams. My brain goes into overdrive, triggered by a word or phrase. Movie-like scenes flash before my eyes. I miss my exit... The song goes on repeat for the next eight hours as I drown in the emotion. Or maybe as I cling to it. I will spend a week obsessing over this song and this scene. Periodically I scrawl fractured notes on scraps of paper and misplace them. But the scene is solidified.
Only, like, 89 more to go...
#2. I’m on the treadmill, and I think about my book. I close my eyes and grip the side bars as I walk ferociously up the incline. I will walk toward something. The movie images return, soon flashing the same scene over and over, but with no forward motion. So I play it again. What happens next? I turn up the music, pick up my pace. I listen. Listening to characters can bring amazing solutions to stumbling blocks. I should do it more. I fly off the back of the treadmill, probably trip over laundry, and scramble to wake up my laptop. Notes. I have to make notes now. Because I got it. I found a piece of the story.
Only 88 more to go...
Later, I will somehow string together my one-line quotes, my jumbled notes, my definitives, and my questions. And after many, many cups of coffee and very few hours of sleep, after immersing myself (often too deeply) in a fictional world that feels oh-so-non-fictional, an entire book will be born.
It ain’t glamorous, but it’s the truth. And a truth that I wouldn’t change, because when the right ideas come, they drive away the angst and worry, and confusion.
Then writing is not my work, it is very simply my air.
No, no. I really do love being a writer. But I often strongly side with Dorothy Parker and her famed sentiment, “I hate writing, I love having written.” Finishing a book gives a sense of accomplishment like no other, and it’s what I strive for.
I mean, obviously. Hello? Who sets out to write half a book?
It’s the getting there that can be tricky.
My ideas start slowly in the back of my mind. A feeling, a scene, maybe even just a line that I want to hear a character say. And then I build an entire book around that. Piece by piece. It can take weeks or months for that initial idea to grow into a full-blown plot, and the slow pace can drive me nearly insane. I want to go, I want it done and over!
I have a fantasy that I’ll come up with a book idea, sit down at the computer, and bang out a concise, logical outline in what I envision as a studious, author-ly manner. I’ll be wearing a gorgeous Ralph Lauren ensemble. There could be riding boots, perhaps. Hair fabulously styled, yet still with the appearance of being casual. A thoughtful, diligent expression on my face as I focus and organize my ideas while poised at my mahogany desk...
Pfft. Hardly. Here are more likely scenarios:
#1. I’m driving in the car, and a song comes on. I feel something... pain, love, hurt, angst, hope. But I feel. My thoughts wander and become daydreams. My brain goes into overdrive, triggered by a word or phrase. Movie-like scenes flash before my eyes. I miss my exit... The song goes on repeat for the next eight hours as I drown in the emotion. Or maybe as I cling to it. I will spend a week obsessing over this song and this scene. Periodically I scrawl fractured notes on scraps of paper and misplace them. But the scene is solidified.
Only, like, 89 more to go...
#2. I’m on the treadmill, and I think about my book. I close my eyes and grip the side bars as I walk ferociously up the incline. I will walk toward something. The movie images return, soon flashing the same scene over and over, but with no forward motion. So I play it again. What happens next? I turn up the music, pick up my pace. I listen. Listening to characters can bring amazing solutions to stumbling blocks. I should do it more. I fly off the back of the treadmill, probably trip over laundry, and scramble to wake up my laptop. Notes. I have to make notes now. Because I got it. I found a piece of the story.
Only 88 more to go...
Later, I will somehow string together my one-line quotes, my jumbled notes, my definitives, and my questions. And after many, many cups of coffee and very few hours of sleep, after immersing myself (often too deeply) in a fictional world that feels oh-so-non-fictional, an entire book will be born.
It ain’t glamorous, but it’s the truth. And a truth that I wouldn’t change, because when the right ideas come, they drive away the angst and worry, and confusion.
Then writing is not my work, it is very simply my air.