Let’s try to discuss this clearly, without any academic nonsense. Writing. Why do I do it? What I get from it. It’s a pretty simple business, putting words on paper. But I’m also a literature student, so I get carried away when I talk about it. Today, we will try to stay away from any talk. I started writing about three years ago. I was out of work due to stress and had a year to kill, and I decided to sit down and write a novel. Just for something to do. So I sat down and got to work, and after about six months I had released a youth thriller. I was even naive enough to think it was worth reading so I polished it up and submitted it, I was ignored and got some rejections, and it was another six months before I realized it was a piece of shit. Just so it’s not entirely clear, it was fucking horrible. To this day it’s still on a hard drive somewhere and I’m still scared to look at it. But who hasn’t started and written something so bad that it’s scary? So I kept going. I wrote some other things. I even wrote a children’s book. I’m not sure it was good, but it was better. The fog was beginning to clear. But it took me about half a million words before I started to relax, to let go, to feel it, to feel it happening on the page, the same way you do when you turn it off and just let it spill. It took a while, but I got there. I don’t feel it all the time; sometimes it’s difficult, tenuous, tense, but that’s fine with me. It always comes eventually. So I keep it up, and the words keep coming out, and every time I find things that I like a little more. Progress. Why have I followed it? To keep busy, above all. I am busy and therefore I do not think. Like many people who tend to the arts, I struggled and continue to struggle with my sanity. So there is that too. Catharsis and what you have. Flow. Purge all the shit that accumulates in the psyche, day by day, week by week, year by year. It keeps me sane. Which, as much as I have embraced insanity in my youth, is underrated. I maintain a certain level of mental health and I can also produce something. It may not be pretty, but it’s something I created. By my own hands. Someday I’ll be dead, but something I did will still be around. Who can’t endorse that? Normally, I write in the morning. Sometimes I get up and make myself a cup of tea, and with the dream fog still over me I sit down and get into it. This is good; At that time in the morning you are still in contact with your subconscious, the place where art springs from. Even if it is not completely compos mentis, it can still produce. Sometimes I get up and do light exercise, have breakfast, take a shower, and then jump in. This is fine too. Every now and then, I get caught up in emails and other things and won’t do it until the afternoon. This is not ideal, but I can still remove a thousand words if I focus hard enough and can successfully navigate all the other distractions. Once upon a time, I used to meditate before writing, and this was great – I was relaxed, flexible, and productivity skyrocketed. The problem is that I don’t have the persistence and motivation to follow the meditation routine. It must be done every day; if not, it becomes a meaningless symbolic practice. What’s the point of this incoherent rant? All of this to say that I am not as disciplined as I could be when it comes to my process. But why stress? I keep blurting out my words and regardless of the production, the book will happen, sooner or later. It will get there. I’ve heard of maniacs who write genre fiction and write five or six thousand words a day, and I play fair, if you can do that and keep the quality constant, good for you. I could not. And so I’m happy to do what I do, content with the knowledge that the next book is, if not around the corner, somewhere ahead. I will get there.
Let’s try to discuss this clearly, without any academic nonsense. Writing. Why do I do it? What I get from it. It’s a pretty simple business, putting words on paper. But I’m also a literature student, so I get carried away when I talk about it. Today, we will try to stay away from any talk. I started writing about three years ago. I was out of work due to stress and had a year to kill, and I decided to sit down and write a novel. Just for something to do. So I sat down and got to work, and after about six months I had released a youth thriller. I was even naive enough to think it was worth reading so I polished it up and submitted it, I was ignored and got some rejections, and it was another six months before I realized it was a piece of shit. Just so it’s not entirely clear, it was fucking horrible. To this day it’s still on a hard drive somewhere and I’m still scared to look at it. But who hasn’t started and written something so bad that it’s scary? So I kept going. I wrote some other things. I even wrote a children’s book. I’m not sure it was good, but it was better. The fog was beginning to clear. But it took me about half a million words before I started to relax, to let go, to feel it, to feel it happening on the page, the same way you do when you turn it off and just let it spill. It took a while, but I got there. I don’t feel it all the time; sometimes it’s difficult, tenuous, tense, but that’s fine with me. It always comes eventually. So I keep it up, and the words keep coming out, and every time I find things that I like a little more. Progress. Why have I followed it? To keep busy, above all. I am busy and therefore I do not think. Like many people who tend to the arts, I struggled and continue to struggle with my sanity. So there is that too. Catharsis and what you have. Flow. Purge all the shit that accumulates in the psyche, day by day, week by week, year by year. It keeps me sane. Which, as much as I have embraced insanity in my youth, is underrated. I maintain a certain level of mental health and I can also produce something. It may not be pretty, but it’s something I created. By my own hands. Someday I’ll be dead, but something I did will still be around. Who can’t endorse that? Normally, I write in the morning. Sometimes I get up and make myself a cup of tea, and with the dream fog still over me I sit down and get into it. This is good; At that time in the morning you are still in contact with your subconscious, the place where art springs from. Even if it is not completely compos mentis, it can still produce. Sometimes I get up and do light exercise, have breakfast, take a shower, and then jump in. This is fine too. Every now and then, I get caught up in emails and other things and won’t do it until the afternoon. This is not ideal, but I can still remove a thousand words if I focus hard enough and can successfully navigate all the other distractions. Once upon a time, I used to meditate before writing, and this was great – I was relaxed, flexible, and productivity skyrocketed. The problem is that I don’t have the persistence and motivation to follow the meditation routine. It must be done every day; if not, it becomes a meaningless symbolic practice. What’s the point of this incoherent rant? All of this to say that I am not as disciplined as I could be when it comes to my process. But why stress? I keep blurting out my words and regardless of the production, the book will happen, sooner or later. It will get there. I’ve heard of maniacs who write genre fiction and write five or six thousand words a day, and I play fair, if you can do that and keep the quality constant, good for you. I could not. And so I’m happy to do what I do, content with the knowledge that the next book is, if not around the corner, somewhere ahead. I will get there.
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