Ack, ack, ack. No new words. Was hoping to get a few in but I ran out of time and if I start now, I won’t get to sleep until too late. Damn. Tomorrow for sure.
Even though I wrote no new words, I did get to have a great evening with a writer friend who’s not only talented in her own right, but also gives great feedback on my work. I try to do the same for her.
We talked of work and personal stuff but most of all, we talked about writing. Her writing and mine. What was hard, what was easy. That part of the conversation took about two seconds because writing is hard. Why do we write if it’s so hard? Well I can’t speak for her because we didn’t go there and she’s not here, but I write because I have to. I don’t always want to, you understand. I have to. It’s not quite like breathing because I don’t need to do it every minute or even every day, but I do have to do it regularly. I can always tell when it’s been too long since I’ve really written because I start getting antsy and irritable, in ways different than when I’m just hungry or tired or stressed.
Don’t get me wrong: I love the product of my writing when it gels and when what I read back to myself reflects what I saw in my head. (And that will be a topic for another post…)
I remember when I fell in love with books: I must have been in maybe second grade. Old enough to read to myself. I don’t remember the name of the book, but I remember rolling green fields and a castle in the distance. I remember because that was the first time I fell into a book. That was the first time I really saw the scene, saw the characters. And when that happens in my writing, when I really and truly create my world, well, that’s a freakin’ fabulous feeling.