The evenings go like this: Leftovers eaten distractedly at the laptop; TV on for company; Facebook, Twitter, and IM distractions. Move to the bedroom, plug in, and try to write in bed. (Read self to sleep when I can write no more.)
Write. I say that like I’m doing some heavy-duty, intense composition, when really sometimes all I can pen is a paragraph or an empty scene. But I tell myself it’s better than nothing.
I try not to think about this as a book. Otherwise I freak out and my creative brain keels over and dies. So I write piecemeal. Sort of like this paragraph. Piecemeal. I need a deadline.
Some nights I get home and I procrastinate; writing feels like a chore. Some nights I get home and I can’t wait to settle into that space in bed; it’s like getting back to a good book at the end of a long day, except I’m not reading one this time, I hope I’m writing it.
This process is intensely love-hate, frightening, plodding, necessary, and right.
The beautiful and haunting image above is from Patrick McCoy's Lost in Translation. It is of body painting/writing done by his friend Lorenzo at a special event over the course of several hours. Awe-inspiring.
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The Colorado River was not always a raging torrent as it formed the Grand Canyon. At times, it was a mere trickle, at other times an uncontrollable flood. Ultimately, it left incomparable beauty in its path.
Writing is like that. Sometimes it crawls, doing its work in the smallest of increments; sometimes it sprints, shoving the heaviest boulders out of its way.
You know this. But perhaps you need the occasional reminder that the words and ideas set their own pace.
Consider yourself reminded.
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