If you write every day, is it prayer? A form of prayer. Or squid ink? Or a strand of floss on the bathroom floor. If you write every day, do you go to heaven or hell or Graham Green’s desk. He wrote a page every day. Think about it. I still say write by hand, still believe it’s a form of prayer, contact between the pen and page, pressing down, your singular handwriting, your hand. If you write every day you will get better. There may be a sentence you’ve yet to write that wants your blood. Are you prepared to give it? And what would you steal? A kidney? A phrase? A shade of blue? What if you wrote every day and found a wee pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or three pieces of coal or an Abyssinian cat. What if your sentences choked you to death, or cradled your head, or played Gin Rummy waiting for the ultimate discard? What if you wrote an unrecognized masterpiece, or the emperor’s new clothes were Gucci?
How often do you write and what’s your excuse?
Filed under: Uncategorized |
Betsy Lerner 
A firm of prayer. I do it too, like Mr Greene
“How often do you write and what’s your excuse?”
Almost every day. Because it’s not going to write itself.
I’ve already written an unrecognized masterpiece. Several of them. Who among us has not?
Last week, I found a strand of floss under the bed. Should I be worried? What was I doing looking under the bed, anyway?
Somewhere, under the rainbow,
Way down low,
In the dirt on the floorboards
Are nightmares that haunt me, oh.
If I want to lose weight without losing body parts, what am I prepared to sacrifice for my writing? Can it be measured?
What am I doing here? It’s so empty here. Nothing but echoes and darkness.
I hear someone calling me, but that’s not my name.
I always find magic in your words, Tetman. Always.
Almost every day, but slightly more than half is reporting — different form; but self-editing before sending is very similar to my other non-fiction work. Cut, simplify, two sentences — not a Ciceronian periodic sentence.
Most every day. Except recently there was a period of WEEKS when I barely scratched out 100 words a day or none at all.
Excuse? I was “blocked.” I actually don’t care for that word except I discovered just how accurate it is. This has never happened for THIS long.
The problem was inadvertently fixed when I did that writer in residence thing last week at that haunted place. (Yes, I heard inexplicable sounds, but I did NOT go investigate, meaning I did not act like those people in the commercial —> “Why can’t we just get into the running car?” “Let’s go to the cemetery!” as the ax murderer rolls his eyes.)
While there, I suddenly averaged over 1,000 wpd. I’ve read/heard other writers claim they accomplished more in that spot where Thomas Wolfe, F. Scott Fitzgerald and many others spent time. Since I’ve been back – same. No excuses now. It’s like Tetman said – it’s not going to write itself, so, shitty writing and all, I’m plopping words down one by one, and making sure I don’t lose momentum each day from here on out.
Writing is prayer, yes; it’s meditation; it’s blissful angst. It’s skiing down a white slope where getting down is the only worldly concern. No, I don’t write every day, but if I did, I’d be a happy person, ripping my hair out, sacrificing a kidney, for a word.
Every.
Single.
Day.
Until…..50,000 words in a glutenous mass of synapses and brain cells decided that I needed to take a break because where I was going had nothing to do with where I had been or wanted to be. All I know is that gems are in there with sparks of wisdom and humor that will wow the unwowable. If I can just wash off the s***, this is the one.
BTW for me every tap on the keyboard is an “Our father…”
I am privileged, blessed, grateful and a true believer. I’m hoping God is reading this morning.
Almost every day, because otherwise what the hell are we here for?