Writing is like a muscle, they say. Use it regularly, and you’ll get better, stronger. They’re right. What they don’t say, is that the type of movement matters.
I write all day. Reams and reams. Words pour from my hundred-meter fingers.
“Dear all”
“Please note”
“Action required”
An accountant of words. Dry and drab and cubicalised. Punching out my memo streams like a clever little drone.
“She writes so well” my colleagues say. “Oh please won’t you look at this?” they wheedle.
And I preen and edit. And convince myself it matters.
Until the page stares. Waits. With the deep patience of something uncreated.
Click, click, delete. Click, click, delete.
And the critic in my head gives a wry smile and says “You’re only fit for emails, girl. Who do you think you are?”
I murdered that critic in my head a long time ago, do it, you’ll feel much better in the morning, ;)
Stubbon little fucker won’t stay dead.
PS plotting some kink for you boyo, so keep tuned.
Did someone say kink? me likes that word.
write first. edit later. tough to edit a page that has been pre-hacked. hoark it up, sister! i know you can do it!
it’s the writing first that’s proving tricky. have to get in the habit again. Trying to force one blog a day, either for here or the other places. TOUGH!
Are you writing here again? Don’t get me all looking forward to your posts and then drop out of sight. I’m coming back here, especially if you’re going to quote Bukowski. Don’t set a one-blog-a-day requirement on yourself. Then it turns into a job. You’ve already got one goddamn job and don’t need another goddamn job.
I’m trying. Lost the habit. (It’s like a hobbit, but less furry, have you seen it?)
And I *don’t* have a goddamn job. Just resigned. That’s a WHOLE other story. Or blog. Ack!