Just a glimpse in my mind during a free write
I have to write. I have this silent prodding every day. No that’s not true. It’s every moment I have free. My free time. That means any chance to get to a computer. I have to write. When I read Writers Digest, I want to write. When I see a sunset, I want to write. When I observe people, I want to write. When I think about fantasy, video games, and Terry Brooks, I want to write. Write, write, write. You know what is annoyingly amusing though? When I feel that inspiration to write (not to be confused with the inspiration of a good idea) I sit down and stop. I don’t write but watch the screen. Words float in my mind. Ideas sprawl before me. It’s all an entire maze within me that I cannot seem to sort out. In the end, I either back down from the pressure, realizing it’s hopeless to produce something good or, more happily, I start somewhere. Anywhere. A beginning will produce an end. I have to try. Try to escape the maze. But it’s not something I want to escape. I would run away and leave the maze if that was the case. At the other side of the maze is my treasure: the published novel. I can see it on the other side, even if I cant touch it. Odd. Although I can see the end, I cannot see the way. How can I see the prize and not the path that gets me there? It’s like the idea is opened like a valley between the mountains, allowing my eyes to go beyond and see but as for the journey itself, it closes in me like the gates of troy. But I have to write. I want to write. These last five days or so that is all I have wanted to do. How much do I have to show for it? Hundreds of pages actually. Yeah, you can see them all. I can prove it. I have done that much, and probably more. The trouble is, all the sheets save several are all pure white. You see, I have most of the thoughts in my head and few words. Oh sure, The Tree has progressed. But a paragraph a day is hardly anything. But it is something. It is a step. It is a routine. It is progress. It is writing. In some ways, that is content. But it’s only one form of being content. My greatest struggle, challenge in writing a novel or anything really is…
When I sit down to write here is the process:
I know I need to write.
So I write.
I write poorly.
I just need to get the main idea on paper.
This produces the cliché and many-times-read-before lines and phrases.
I persist but I know I cant and also, I don’t want to write them.
Write I must.
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