• Forest for the Trees
  • THE FOREST FOR THE TREES is about writing, publishing and what makes writers tick. This blog is dedicated to the self loathing that afflicts most writers. A community of like-minded malcontents gather here. I post less frequently now, but hopefully with as much vitriol. Please join in! Gluttons for punishment can scroll through the archives.

    If I’ve learned one thing about writers, it’s this: we really are all alone. Thanks for reading. Love, Betsy

Let the Morning Time Drop All its Petals on Me

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Beginning, middle and end. Pick your poison. For me starting is always the best. The moment I get a title or a first line in my head, I feel like a racehorse at the starting line. It’s this infusion of adrenaline and excitement. Most of the time, I don’t get far, but for the few moments before the idea fizzles, I’m my most happy. Writing is a brilliant cocktail of ego, narcissism, and the rush of making something out of nothing. It’s like a hunk of clay moving beneath your hands, a climbing wall, a pool table with balls racked. It’s a cigarette slowly burning, an empty swing with a violent back story, a pair of shoes, a bit of wind

How do you get started?

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5 Responses

  1. I usually hear the voices of characters. Right now I have ongoing projects so all I have to do is sit down to enter into an alternate reality It’s always a relief.

  2. How do you get started?

    A title – most of the time, and/or the name of the main character. Those circle The Big Idea, which might be a moment in history or an unusual subject.

    Getting to The End isn’t so bad either.

  3. I’m a bit of a title person myself.

  4. “…A pair of shoes, a bit of wind,” for sure. Images usually start my process, often something I’ve seen 100 times appearing in a whole new light at the beginning, middle or end.

    What was your face
    before you had this face,
    what did you look like
    before you born?
    Where did you come from,
    where will you go,
    what was your story
    before it began?

  5. A mood comes over me, and I make up a story to either wallow or revel in it.

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