I’ve never actually had writer’s block, if we’re interpreting it to mean “the inability to write”. I’ve always been able to write something. Usually too much of something. Usually in a rushing flow of syllables too heavy on the imagery and too light on the explanation. ‘Cause describing things isn’t as fun as describing things about things, if that makes any sense. I would rather tell you how a particular scene makes me feel, or how it makes the various character me’s feel, than what they’re wearing and how they styled their hair this morning. Unless, of course, what they’re wearing can tell you more about who they are than what they’re doing. Which is rare. But it happens. And then I get to fall into description like circus grotesquerie and draw their clothing on with thick oil crayons and fine sable brushes and needles to stitch and to barb.
Anyway, my point is that I’m about 25 000 words into The Fiction Project story, and I have a bunch of connecting scenes to write. And I DON’T WANT TO WRITE THEM. I will, of course. I’ll make myself do it. I’ll bribe myself with chocolate covered almonds, and freshly ground fair-trade coffee, and a trip to the used book store to immerse myself in that sweet dusty smell and find a dogeared treasure to read in the bath. The writing WILL get done….
I just don’t wanna. Not right now. Maybe later. After I hike off to meet my student, watch my daughter practice wushu and take my son out for hot chocolate. After I lose some time reading my friend Angie West’s new book (which is a hill of fun – it’s like VI Warshawski, except awesomer). And maybe after I watch a move with lots of explosions, men with lumpy muscles, and women ever on the verge of bursting out of their clothes. Clearly, I need more Bond in my life….
Happy writing, my NaNoWriMo, peeps! I am not brave enough to enter the madness, myself. But the further I get along this book-making journey, the more I admire your courage. Write on!
- D.
