Day 76: Writing when you’re busy (with excerpt)

I’ve already talked about how Tolkien fit his writing in around his very busy schedule. I still haven’t found my balance there, so I always perk up when I see an article giving tips or giving an example of how another writer did it. And I’ll keep posting them here.

I found a new one: this one is from Writer’s Digest and it’s called, “How to Write a Book When You’re Really, Really Busy.” Ashley Ream is the guest blogger for this article and she shows how she charts out her progress. And I mean, literally shows: she includes a picture of her most recent writing spreadsheet.

It’s pretty damn impressive. I know I can’t do what she did but I’m working up to it. Dashiell Hemmett gave a good reason to keep trying, to keep pushing, keep writing. He said: “If you have a story that seems worth telling, and you think you can tell it worthily, then the thing for you to do is to tell it, regardless of whether it has to do with sex, sailors or mounted policemen.”

So it’s worth it to keep plugging away at whatever it is you’re writing. Just don’t beat yourself because you can’t write a beautiful spreadsheet of where your word count should be, and more, stick with it. Just keep writing at whatever pace you can. As Art Williams says, “I’m not telling you it is going to be easy—I’m telling you it’s going to be worth it.”

Now. I did promise an excerpt from today’s writing (443 words). So here it is:

I heard the footsteps before I saw the group of police walking towards me. I scrambled back on the wall to get out of their way. They didn’t look like they’d want to step around me.

Up on the wall, I had a better view of them and their faces. Most were serious – no expression on them. Except for one. This one was a man and his lip was curled just a bit. I wondered if he didn’t like what he was being made to do.

Then I saw them just behind the man I’d noticed: two old people, their heads down so I couldn’t really see their faces. Both were short, but then all old people seemed short to me. One had grey hair, one, mostly white.

I stared at them, wondering what they’d done. As they passed, the man I’d first noticed looked up and met my eyes as if he’d felt them on him.

He was older than I’d thought and I was right: his eyes looked pained and his brows were drawn down over them. He was definitely unhappy doing whatever they were doing. His eyes slid away from mine and then the group was gone.

Good night all.


About thewritingblues

I'm a writer working on a YA dystopian novel and blogging on my progress - or lack thereof - and other cool writing stuff.
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