There are writers (such as my past-self and current lazy-writing self) who like to think of writing as an utterly romantic affair of the heart, in which writing can only be done when Thalia and Calliope, are fluttering over your shoulder, when the lighting is perfect, when you’re in perfect physical condition, and when you’ve only just digested a novel of tour de force, leaving you in a state of wordstasy.
Dare I even ask what that last made up word means?
It’s a portmanteau, Johnny. Obviously. It blends the words “word” and “ecstasy” together. Get it?
You’re off your ruddy rocker.
Honestly, I thought you were supposed to be the one who understood me inside and out. Don’t you know that lovely feeling of floating around on silver wings? That’s what happens during wordstasy. You are drunk on good words, either by reading or writing them. Indeed, wordstasy can be so intoxicating it can be difficult to ever move on in life.
Bonkers.
ANEEEWAAAAY, that’s the honeymoon stage of writing. It’s a romantic idea, really, the idea of lounging around, eating muffins and swatting flies, waiting for a perfect sentence to pop into your head. When it does, you type it out in a frenzy, typing through the night, typing until you’ve burned out the writing wick, and you find yourself in the utter dark again. “Thus, concludes our programme, ladies and gents, until who-knows-when.”
Someone smart once suggested that writers should always pull off while they’re still ahead.
Smart thinking, that. Then you have some extra juice to work with when you get back on the saddle again, which, by gum, you will, very soon!
One problem with my claiming to be a writer is that I don’t do nearly enough writing. My goal for this summer is to complete my manuscript. It is without-a-doubt possible. I just.
Have to. Do it.
As E. L. Konigsburg (whom I have always shamefully called “Kingingsburg” for some bizarre reason) once quoted: “Finish. The difference between being a writer and being a person of talent [this is where nitwit writers like me prick up their ears] is the discipline it takes to apply the seat of your pants to the seat of your chair and finish. Don’t talk about
doing it. Do it. Finish.”
Oof. Structure. Discipline (Urrrrrrrg). Isn’t that what we art-major, English buff, stars in our eyes and eyes in the stars men and women avoid with a rackety packety passion?
And the idea of writing real, good meat every day. Yikes!
As a note from Johnny: you’ll have to excuse the unhealthy amount of interjections in this post. [Carley Anne] has only just completed Julia Child’s book, “My Life in Paris.” There is nothing more to be said. It will wear off eventually, Buttercup.
I am certainly not an extremely disciplined person. In some ways, I can have an extreme self-control (trying not to itch at a severe sunburn, as a brutal example. Though, thinking back, perhaps that was achieved only because I was mostly burned in hard-to-reach places. Between the shoulder blades, for example). Mostly, though, I am shamefully indulgent. Bad writer, bad!
On top of that, I have this niggling need to write perfection the first time, always. How cute, how laughable. No writer (none!) will ever get through writing a novel without making some mistakes.
The fact of the matter is this: many, many, many people have looked at me and said with their well-intentioned eyes: you will never be a professional published writer. Sad and wonderful truth is, they are completely right.
Pardon?
Sad because, in this current state of affairs, with my honeymooning around, tiptoeing around my book, traipsing around in the daisies, calling myself a writer (with an asterisk: “who does not write”), I will not be a professional published writer. This is a good thing. Could you imagine the sad state our libraries and bookstores would be in if any sluggish dimwit with a wiggly pencil and a half-baked idea were able to get their story published? Disaster.
One more side-note via Johnny: the name-calling in this post are probably due to [Carley Anne's unhealthy amount of time spent in Roald Dahl world. It happens to the best of us.
The wonderful truth is, we can change. Our organs are constantly regenerating new versions of themselves. Bones too, not to mention hair and toenails. Why not the mind? Why not change bad habits into healthy ones? We can change, reader, if we want it hard enough and work at it hard enough.
So, I can finish this manuscript. I could finish it in a month if I truly, honestly wrote with conviction. I must. I have no excuse not to—it’s summertime!
This means more writing, more reading (with a special nod to the monster sitting on my lap under my laptop, The America Horticulture Society Encyclopedia of Gardening, which I discovered during this simply marvelous ballyhoo of garage sailing) and more gardening, which means more hives and more sunburns. Yick!
Keep writing, writers, and I mean it!
“[Moses] regarded disgrace for the sake of Christ as of greater value than the treasures of Egypt, because he was looking ahead to his reward. By faith he left Egypt, not fearing the king’s anger; he persevered because he saw him who is invisible […] through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised; who shut the mouths of lions, quenched the fury of the flames, escaped the edge of the sword; whose weakness was turned to strength.” –Hebrews 11: 26-34
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