Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Well, I just wrote 73 words, after a whole evening of waiting to write. And not writing.  They mount up so fast. Maybe if I could just ride on through the impulse to stop I get. It does keep returning, though. If I could eat endless packets of biscuits, I think it might help, but that's hardly a good trade off.

My fingers are moving now... the problem with fiction is the fear that what you're writing sounds stupid all the time. Someone who doesn't like me very much once commented on something I'd written, and suggested that fiction maybe just isn't my thing. Heh. That was ... well, it didn't work, let's say, being that little bit too obvious a ploy. I produce good stuff, it's just ... it kills me to do it. There. is. no. flow. Where is my flow? Where is the pour, the spouting stream of articulation and inspiration? Hmm? *pokes brain demandingly*

I'm one of those people who wants to be a writer but doesn't write. Danielle suggested I might be a lady writer, and I totally am, but I'm not even that right now.

Everything in my being has just slowed to a thickening fudge. A swampy morass of treacly entropy. I just had to look up entropy, it doesn't exactly mean what I thought it did, but actually, it'll do.


Ms. Moon said...

I am not writing either. Not...that kind of writing.
What I do know is that flow comes when you bump, bump, bump along the road regularly.

Jo said...

Yep, am trying to do that.

Jo said...

Ok, I got to a thousand. But how the hell did it get to be twenty-three minutes to two?