There are two quotes I love about writing by authors (and I’m sorry that I can’t think of their names first thing this morning).
Q: “What the hardest part about writing?”
A: “The writing, of course.”
“I don’t like to write. I like to have written.”
That sums up my feelings most of the time. Writing is a struggle. A constant crossing out and starting over. It’s painful – not painful like childbirth – but anguishing.
I can go from being elated while writing to devastation and back to feeling adequate all in the space of ten minutes. And that’s before I even write a word.
Not this morning though. I woke up early to exercise while the rest of my family was asleep. And I was lifting some weights, nothing strenuous, when I thought “why aren’t I writing right now?”
For me, the morning is perfect. It’s quiet, even for just half an hour. I’m not bogged down with my day-job stress. And if I don’t read the news, I’m not completely depressed yet by the state of the world.
And magically, when I sat down and pulled up a new document, the opening paragraphs of my new story “The Poles of Inaccessibility” just poured out. A completely different opening that I’d scratched out longhand in a journal. And nothing like what I’d been mulling over in my head.
Today, I liked the actual act of writing.