Nine notebooks of writing went into the ‘throw this out box’ last night. Maybe 10.** I don’t want to count because I might open one and read a little and turn a page and then it’ll all go to hell.
People who can write a blog and mine it for book material later are people to admire. I’m so not one of those people. I can think of 5 good reasons why I have this writer’s handicap, but there’s no point complaining about it. Fiction just uses a whole other part of me, a part that takes only certain ingredients and equipment along. I struggle to write a blog. I don’t struggle to write a story.
Pen touches paper. Pen writes. It has to be a pen. Used to have to be a good pen, but my chiropractor made me stop. My beautiful Waterman, my romantic Montblanc were put away, in a secret place where treasure goes. It turned into a secret when I forgot where the place is.
When the pen stops, I start editing and lose most of what’s been written. Sometimes, I never return to what I wrote, but start all over on a scene. It’s strange to find the same scene, written at two different times – times separated by a month or more – and find that I wrote virtually the same thing.
This is the juice.
I haven’t written fiction with any intention for years. I’ve written scripts and marketing material and little thought pieces and short essays, but not fiction.
I’m starting again. I must be thirsty.
** 13. There were 13 notebooks.