Before my MLE (Major Life Event), I would get up every morning, go to the gym, work out for an hour or two, and then write approximately 3,000 words on one of my projects. The rest of my day was on hold until I met that threshold of verbiage, or put in a valiant effort before giving up on it.
Some days, the words would fly onto the page, almost faster than I could capture them and 3,000 was more like 5,000. Other days, it was a crawl, and I spent more time staring at the cursor than typing, squeaking out 300 (or less!) words. Either way though, I was slogging through the work of writing a story.
The point, of course, was to get the story out of my head and into some tangible form. After all, the worst story ever written is better than the greatest story ever imagined. – And, as fun as a story may be to read, it is still a ton of work to get it written.
After my MLE, it has been a slow crawl back to normalcy. I am just now, six weeks after the fact, getting back into the gym. I am just now re-reading the work I completed on one of my projects to decide if I want to keep it, change it, or scrap it. Most importantly, I am only just now deciding I still want to be a writer.
I don’t care what anyone says … published, not published; known, not known … the only requirement to be a writer is to actually write. Not to think about writing, not to dream about a particularly good idea, not to want the supposed trappings of being a known author (money, fame, whatever), but the sole desire to tell good stories. That’s it. For the past few weeks, the desire I have to write has been challenged. I have questioned if I really have the mettle (even though I’ve written two books already). I have spent a lot of time worried about where my life experiences will take my stories: good, bad, or otherwise. The decision I have reached is that I’m a storyteller. I have to do this, because it’s who I am.
Maybe all writers go through a crisis like this and I just needed a major life event to kick start mine. I don’t know. What I *do* know is that I’m headed to the gym. And, afterwards, I’ll be back at the keyboard, working on a story.
Go Forth and Write!
Some days, the words would fly onto the page, almost faster than I could capture them and 3,000 was more like 5,000. Other days, it was a crawl, and I spent more time staring at the cursor than typing, squeaking out 300 (or less!) words. Either way though, I was slogging through the work of writing a story.
The point, of course, was to get the story out of my head and into some tangible form. After all, the worst story ever written is better than the greatest story ever imagined. – And, as fun as a story may be to read, it is still a ton of work to get it written.
After my MLE, it has been a slow crawl back to normalcy. I am just now, six weeks after the fact, getting back into the gym. I am just now re-reading the work I completed on one of my projects to decide if I want to keep it, change it, or scrap it. Most importantly, I am only just now deciding I still want to be a writer.
I don’t care what anyone says … published, not published; known, not known … the only requirement to be a writer is to actually write. Not to think about writing, not to dream about a particularly good idea, not to want the supposed trappings of being a known author (money, fame, whatever), but the sole desire to tell good stories. That’s it. For the past few weeks, the desire I have to write has been challenged. I have questioned if I really have the mettle (even though I’ve written two books already). I have spent a lot of time worried about where my life experiences will take my stories: good, bad, or otherwise. The decision I have reached is that I’m a storyteller. I have to do this, because it’s who I am.
Maybe all writers go through a crisis like this and I just needed a major life event to kick start mine. I don’t know. What I *do* know is that I’m headed to the gym. And, afterwards, I’ll be back at the keyboard, working on a story.
Go Forth and Write!