About Hard Writing and Sidewalks
Post 1499:
I got into fiction writing kinda late. I wasn’t one of those kids making up stories in a cute notebook while the others were outside playing. Nope, I was playing too. I was a pretty normal little dude, but I did have a voracious love for music and reading.
So, without planning on it for much of my life, I became a musician and a fairly good songwriter. That was after going to college to be a doctor or something practical. Oh well, you don't always get to decide who you are.
Music’s been alright. It’s not the easiest way to make money—somehow I do, however, so I should probably shut the hell up about it and be grateful.
Then there’s fiction writing. People think it’s hard. Maybe it is. For me, the whole reason I do it is because it’s fun. It kind of comes naturally. Not that I’m great, but when I sit down, stuff rolls onto the page. Could be it’s all the books I’ve read. Maybe this or that, who knows. I just like that it happens and it feels good. When it comes to the arts, I imagine most folks don’t pursue them because they find the experience miserable. There’s not a ton of brilliant writers and artists pumping out masterpieces against their will with guns aimed at their heads. It don't work like that.
It’s not always fun, though. I’ve been through a year that has been more labor than love when it comes to my writing. I never understood authors who whined about running out of ideas or running low on purpose. Never happened. Until it did. Powering through it though, I believe there’s daylight, and I’m probably much better than before. It’s no surprise that struggle strengthens, so this isn’t exactly some great groundbreaking epiphany—I just felt like saying it.
When something that has always worked for you stops working, it can freak you out. Maybe it’s the randomness of it. One day you’re walking down the street and then your legs stop functioning. You face-plant on the sidewalk. There’s an initial effort to get going but soon fear dominates and then a dog comes up and pees on you. It starts raining. People start throwing bits of change, mistaking you for homeless. This can go on for awhile, and that’s the scary part. You might stay there forever covered in your own filth and old newspapers unless you get those legs going.
I think I’ve made my point. Cheers and see you after
