Are You Writing?
Why aren’t you writing? she asks him.
Writer’s block.
But that is really no excuse. The solution to writer’s block is to just apply your fingers to the keyboard or the smooth, black pen and write.
Who cares if it’s crappy.
You just have to write.
He has the leisurely morning to write – not like some folk who rise early and scurry off to work after a shower, a cup of coffee, and a few minutes of shuffling papers in a fake leather bag. Not like some folk who run down the hill to catch the bus, hoping against hope they haven’t dawdled too long over their cereal, their coattails flying behind them and their bags bumping their hips and thighs as they run, run to the corner only to see the bus pull up at the stop, pause, and then lumber off as they wave at it, watching its rear round the corner and turn out of sight.
He rises later in the morning, long past the time the sun creeps up over the dark edges of the horizon, pinking up the sky. He waits until the sun has filled the room completely and illuminates the faint lines around his eyes. Then he wakes, makes coffee, brushes his teeth. Dallies over the morning paper, listens to some jazz, lets out the cat, ponders the stock market report (even though he has no portfolio) and wonders why, later in the afternoon, he has not written.
If this continues, the muse thinks to herself, she will punish him quite severely for this transgression. But for now, she picks up the phone to call him and ask
“Are you writing?”
Writer’s block.
But that is really no excuse. The solution to writer’s block is to just apply your fingers to the keyboard or the smooth, black pen and write.
Who cares if it’s crappy.
You just have to write.
He has the leisurely morning to write – not like some folk who rise early and scurry off to work after a shower, a cup of coffee, and a few minutes of shuffling papers in a fake leather bag. Not like some folk who run down the hill to catch the bus, hoping against hope they haven’t dawdled too long over their cereal, their coattails flying behind them and their bags bumping their hips and thighs as they run, run to the corner only to see the bus pull up at the stop, pause, and then lumber off as they wave at it, watching its rear round the corner and turn out of sight.
He rises later in the morning, long past the time the sun creeps up over the dark edges of the horizon, pinking up the sky. He waits until the sun has filled the room completely and illuminates the faint lines around his eyes. Then he wakes, makes coffee, brushes his teeth. Dallies over the morning paper, listens to some jazz, lets out the cat, ponders the stock market report (even though he has no portfolio) and wonders why, later in the afternoon, he has not written.
If this continues, the muse thinks to herself, she will punish him quite severely for this transgression. But for now, she picks up the phone to call him and ask
“Are you writing?”
posted by Bird | 6:35 AM
5 Comments:
I am still writing my blog... for now
Have you been looking in my window? giggle, giggle.
three cures fer the "block"
(from Finding Forrester) Get a good magazine artical, write the first sentence, finish the rest yourself.
Of course, there's little you can do about the borrowing part....
it's called plagerism.
Go fetch the yellow pages. I have no idea why this works, but, try it. Go through page by page, take note of the words and pictures, wallow through.... soon enough an idea of some scrap of creativity will whisper at you.
And, last, but hardly least...
Write what you are doing at any given moment and let it flow forward in whatever way you want it to.
I sat down at the typewriter knowing that I was out of ideas. "Damn!" I thought to myself. How could I be out of ideas? I had just come back from the most exciting adventure I had ever been on, saw things I never thought I'de see, but now...
Dried up.
Tired and sucking on cold coffee made three days ago, and absolutely empty of ideas.
But then, I heard a knock on the neighbor's door. And muffled voices coming from the hallway...soon they were arguing, and quite loudly, too.
Suddenly gunshots rang out! I opened the door and there stood Cheney, smoking gun in his hand and dubya curled up on the floor, groaning.
I ran for the phone, 911!
"GET OVER HERE, QUICK! Or else we'll have a REAL madman for president!"
Cheney bounded in the door, bullets flying.
"You'll never save him! I want to be president! ME! I know how to deal with trouble makers like those clowns in congress!"
OK, maybe I didn't need to add an example, but, what the hay...
I do like to ham it up on occassion.
excellent example boneman.
Uh -oh.
Advice for tender hearted muses:
Find a creative alter ego who is also *disciplined*. Even when the block appears, the disciplined gits outa bed at dawn, moves through the stall routine in double time, and tackles minor creative chores(Cull old files, send out inquiries, clean up the paint box, ..whatever.)
I'm gonna come find ya on that blue bus...be on the lookout--ya jes' never knows.
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