I waited a long time to write my first novel.
Through the years, I'd keep a journal from time to time and started more novels and short stories than I can remember. My main problem was two-fold, in that I believed in two principle writing lies: 1. I needed inspiration. 2. I needed the perfect writing conditions. In virtually every story or movie featuring a writer, there's consistently a cabin in the woods with a typewriter and that lightning bolt of inspiration where they rattle off a novel in a matter of hours. And when they type out "The End," it's just that: The End. No edits, no further rewrites, no more drafts. Boom. The End. Off to an editor and here comes the multi-figure check. When I didn't have a "lightning bolt" of inspiration or that ideal setting to go to, I kept telling myself that I was a failure. I wasn't a real writer. I believed the lies. The reality is that nothing is perfect on a first draft. Writing is rewriting. And writing is the deliberate discipline of stapling your pants to the chair and just DOING IT. You can't do anything with a blank page, but you can do a ton with a 70,000 word draft. It ain't gonna be perfect, but that first draft must exist before the final draft can. And there is no perfect spot to write. For me, my main writing exists inside two hours (from about 1 until around three), when my kids nap or have quiet, personal time. And even though it's "quiet" time, my kids are often running in, interrupting my writing to ask questions or to play for a moment. But it's what I have to do. Even though I have a specific time for writing, a section of the day I've carved for myself, I still write in the margins. Between naps and activities and dropping my boys off at school. When you have the dream, you make it happen, even it's just on the side, in the margins of life.
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AuthorI am a writer. I write. Archives
January 2021
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