Writing Time Again
Yesterday’s writing session went well. Only five pages finished, taking me to two sixty, and closer to the story’s end. More of the final details flashed into me, which was really exciting.
I kept writing in my head in my après-writing walk, which ended up being two and half miles. I’d just kept writing in my head and forgot about the time or distance. I was ravenous by then, as it was after three and I’d not eaten lunch.
Books had been given to me for Christmas. I began reading one of them last night after watching the news, but had only read a paragraph before the urge to add a line to my novel jumped into me. Opening the document, I added that line and then experienced more ideas and wrote three more pages.
This morning, as I fed les chats, I wrote in my head and decided to add another line to the novel. So I sat down in the sweats that I wear to bed and wrote two more pages as I ate breakfast.
That seemed to satisfy the muses.
Breakfast is finished but I’m not dressed or anything. Must clean up, shave, brush the teeth, etc., so I can go out and write like crazy, at least one more time, and have a cuppa coffee. Haven’t enjoyed a drop yet today.
I take it all as it comes.
Primed
Yesterday was a particularly intense writing day. I added twelve pages (and edited multiple sections), shunning other activities to stay in the tube. Ran out of coffee; butt went completely numb. A friend later said, “I saw you at the coffee shop writing. You were so intense, I think you were scaring people. I sure as heck didn’t want to disturb you.”
Yes, twelve new pages are a lot for me to accomplish in one day. My sessions generally top out at five to six. More, though, after ‘finishing’ writing for the day, the muses continued feeding me pieces of story, scene, and characters. Getting in here today, words fill my pathways, ready to find the page, a fantastic feeling.
I’ll write today but not tomorrow (damn coffee shop is closed for some holiday, can you believe it?), and then resume Thursday. I thought, hopefully I won’t lose momentum, and then shrugged that off. Momentum comes and go. Long as I keep putting my ass in a chair and turning on the computer in front of me, progression will continue, not always as a deluge or a storm, but at least at a gentle trickle.
I started this project on November first. I’m at two hundred fifty pages (71,000 words). My goal is to limit it to a three-hundred page draft, and I think that’s within reach. Of course, I have to laugh at myself (and my muses), as sequels (and tangents) have leaped into my imagination stream.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Cheers
A Few More Drips
I’d been experiencing such great writing mojo. It was wondrous, the sort of writing experiences sought by authors everywhere. The writing flowed freely. Editing and revisions tailored the passages into cleaner, more reader-friendly (and story-advancing) prose.
Then, Wednesday came.
There wasn’t any indication Wednesday would be the day that the mojo didn’t come, but Wednesday was the day the mojo took off. Maybe the rain chased the mojo away, or perhaps they had a dental appointment.
I asked the muses where the mojo had gone. The muses shrugged, palms out in classic “I don’t know” non-verbals. “Who knows how the mojo works,” they said. “Mojo has a mind of its own.”
Their response surprised me; I thought the muses supplied the mojo, a position that amused them. “As if,” they said.
I struggled through Wednesday. Writing a short chapter (about a thousand words) consumed hours. Carving and shaping it sucked another thirty minutes. Even then, I was like, geez, that needs work.
Then, of course, I walked away.
The next day, the mojo showed up late but still, good to have them (don’t know the mojo’s gender, to be honest). Fixed that Wednesday chapter and then pushed on. With mojo encouraging the muses (or is it the other way), the writing time flew. Words poured out.
Beautiful. Off I went, walking, writing in my head as I went, pursuing chores, then back home for lunch and household tasks. All the while, the mojo stayed. The muses kept whispering more.
Quietly (avoiding attracting the cats, scaring off the muses, or alarming the mojo), I opened my computer and added another page. Off for more holiday running around with my spouse. The mojo remained, and the muses kept whispering, “Add this. Write that.”
Back home, more was added.
Then, showering this morning, more scenes dripped in. “Hurry,” the muses said, “let’s go write.”
“Come on,” the mojo said. “You gonna write or what?”
Yes, I was gonna write. At page two hundred, with a goal of keeping it less than three hundred pages (which looks promising), I believe it can be completed by the middle of January. Earlier is possible (as is a shorter novel) as, tying ends together, I revise the page count down.
Got my coffee. The muses and mojo are present. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Fiona Said
Comment – Every writer needs to find what works. I think this is one of the most unique that I’ve read about. More power to her. What works, works, and you go with it.
Michael Seidel, writer 