So I recently suffered a personal setback and, in an effort to distract myself, I poured myself into the new novel. I had already begun chipping back at it, but found (with the amount of distraction I needed) that I was able to increase my output dramatically. I now have a rough first draft and am planning to jump right into the rewrite.
The thing that struck me (as it has with every completed project) was the question: "Why didn't I do this sooner?"
The answers are numerous, but the main point of it is distraction. Distracted by life, television, work, money, fb, hanging-out/"liming", family, etc. etc... All the distractions are there for entertainment and necessity. The necessities must be dealt with. There's just no way around that. But the entertainment... well that's where you can sit down and write. Write for the joy of it and remember what it is that really fuels the desire, which is the love of the craft.
The thing that struck me (as it has with every completed project) was the question: "Why didn't I do this sooner?"
The answers are numerous, but the main point of it is distraction. Distracted by life, television, work, money, fb, hanging-out/"liming", family, etc. etc... All the distractions are there for entertainment and necessity. The necessities must be dealt with. There's just no way around that. But the entertainment... well that's where you can sit down and write. Write for the joy of it and remember what it is that really fuels the desire, which is the love of the craft.
I hope I'm finally learning to let the writing become the distraction (at least until it can become "the work").
I wouldn't go so far as to say that I lost my way, but I would sit and churn out a page here and there like it was my duty, a promise I had made to some old former-self to never give up on this dream, to put in the time until the windfall. Because, you see, you reach a point where you feel, "I need to do this," and forget how much you really WANT to do it.
For the first time in a long time I think I feel that old desire again. Not just the desire driven by the knowledge that I AM a writer. That nowhere else do I feel as at home, as relevant, or as satisfied. That this is what I have to do. But the desire also driven by the fun of it, of losing myself in a world of my own creation, of chasing my shadow through widows and refusing to let the real world catch me, age and reason be damned - at least for a little while, at least for a moment...
Life will surely come beckoning. Right now though, I'm writing for me again. Because I want to.
And I like it.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that I lost my way, but I would sit and churn out a page here and there like it was my duty, a promise I had made to some old former-self to never give up on this dream, to put in the time until the windfall. Because, you see, you reach a point where you feel, "I need to do this," and forget how much you really WANT to do it.
For the first time in a long time I think I feel that old desire again. Not just the desire driven by the knowledge that I AM a writer. That nowhere else do I feel as at home, as relevant, or as satisfied. That this is what I have to do. But the desire also driven by the fun of it, of losing myself in a world of my own creation, of chasing my shadow through widows and refusing to let the real world catch me, age and reason be damned - at least for a little while, at least for a moment...
Life will surely come beckoning. Right now though, I'm writing for me again. Because I want to.
And I like it.
