July, a month of writing, is over… and what do I have to show for it? I have half of a rough… rough novel that is very rough... did I say it was rough? It is. Rough. But I have half of it! And that is cause for celebration, if nothing else is.
Stories are like rare, tropical birds… very difficult to catch without damaging their beauty…
Yes, I haven’t gotten out much for the past month.
Working on the same story every day for a month is tiring, not to mention boring, as I mentioned in my last post. After a while, you forget why you haven’t met with your friends in weeks, why you haven’t showered in days, and why the only food you’ve made the time to prepare yourself is PB & J.
Why even bother? All I got was half of a ROUGH novel. It hurts me to even think about it, it’s so rough!
I don’t have any answers. If you write, you do it because you are forced.
I’m not joking.
Who likes writing for the sake of writing? (Okay, I liked it when I was two, and I discovered Microsoft Word and felt like a grownup, wondering why there were so many squiggly red lines under my beautiful words.) That’s right: very, very few people.
I remember getting horrible cramps in first grade after laboriously forming letters. It hurt! Writing was painful. I remember failing at typing, after the excitement wore off.
No one likes being judged.
No one likes exhibiting his or her work for other’s to judge. Writing (or art, or music, or anything else that requires creativity) is an expression of one’s self. It is a piece of us. If it is bad, so are we.
We write because we are forced, like a student in English class.
We’ll go crazy if we don’t write down the stories in our heads and hearts. Don’t worry. All writers hear voices: character’s voices, your voices in the guise of one of your characters.
Writing isn’t fun.
Reading’s fun.
Sharing stories is fun. Hearing stories, experiencing ordinary or great things in the comfort of your own room…
That’s magic.
Stories are like rare, tropical birds… very difficult to catch without damaging their beauty…
Yes, I haven’t gotten out much for the past month.
Working on the same story every day for a month is tiring, not to mention boring, as I mentioned in my last post. After a while, you forget why you haven’t met with your friends in weeks, why you haven’t showered in days, and why the only food you’ve made the time to prepare yourself is PB & J.
Why even bother? All I got was half of a ROUGH novel. It hurts me to even think about it, it’s so rough!
I don’t have any answers. If you write, you do it because you are forced.
I’m not joking.
Who likes writing for the sake of writing? (Okay, I liked it when I was two, and I discovered Microsoft Word and felt like a grownup, wondering why there were so many squiggly red lines under my beautiful words.) That’s right: very, very few people.
I remember getting horrible cramps in first grade after laboriously forming letters. It hurt! Writing was painful. I remember failing at typing, after the excitement wore off.
No one likes being judged.
No one likes exhibiting his or her work for other’s to judge. Writing (or art, or music, or anything else that requires creativity) is an expression of one’s self. It is a piece of us. If it is bad, so are we.
We write because we are forced, like a student in English class.
We’ll go crazy if we don’t write down the stories in our heads and hearts. Don’t worry. All writers hear voices: character’s voices, your voices in the guise of one of your characters.
Writing isn’t fun.
Reading’s fun.
Sharing stories is fun. Hearing stories, experiencing ordinary or great things in the comfort of your own room…
That’s magic.
Zoë
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