Words, despotic and therapeutic.

June 15, 2013 Candace Morris 0 Comments


I've been, I don't know, writing I guess. I've been taking a long look at how I structure my days and trying to fit in the completion of an (troublesome!) essay.

On so many different levels, it feels so good to be writing consistently.  On many other levels, it feels miserable to be writing consistently.  These little rebellious words won't obey.  I feel like a giant trying to fry ants to death with a magnifying glass...me trying to pinpoint them exactly for what they are, with careful precision and meticulous clarity...them trying like hell to scatter for fear of such exactness.

A much as there is writing in this world of ours, there is equal amounts of writing about writing.  Writers seem to be obsessed with knowing how other writers overcome the most fundamental question for a writer:
How can it be so hard to do something I want to do?  How can I so distinctly NOT want to do what I am dying to do? There are so many questions in the way.  Some days, even in the miracle of having the time to write, the lack of focus could make me cry.

Shall I share my new routine?  Really it just consists of discipline.  Instead of using her morning nap to shower and eat, I now get ready with her in her bouncy chair and when she goes down for a nap, I go right to my work.

And this is key.
I set a timer.
15 minutes - Freewrite warm-up on whatever subject I like.
30 minutes - Work on essay.

This essay is due to be workshopped by my writer's group (which I love!) in two weeks.  This has required me to plan each and every day for writing time and to stick to it no matter what.

There are days when the time goes by so fast, when I can see clearly through the muck of WTF I am trying to say, but the last two days (I've only been at it for four), whenever the buzzer goes off, I breath a huge sigh of relief, close my computer close to tears, and head to the kitchen to do something I am actually good at.

Like DISHES.
I can do the fuck out of dishes.

I try to return to the work for afternoon nap, but my brain is completely done by then.  It's all I can do to stay awake, so I prefer to use that time for more active things like emails, cleaning, cooking, or organizing.

Between Bowie and writing, I am feeling just about spent.  It's probably going to feel good soon, right?

The best thing I can do, should I be able to do it, is to just not think about it and just write.
Just write.
Just write.
Just write.

Write the fuck out of those words.


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