Blocks of time are valuable to a writer. Especially when working a large project like a book. Lately, I’ve been trapped by the “time syndrome” which detains my writing muse. I glance at the clock. All my obligations both perceived and actual, make me feel I’m left with too little time and too much material.
There’s a writing mindset which burrows its way into the psyche which whispers in my “ear of confidence” that says, “if you don’t write this in one sitting, you will never be able to complete it.” This us utter balderdash. I know so because I’ve written a good number of books and I know you pick up where you leave off.
Yes, the overall direction and feel may change, but that’s the way of writing. That change may well be the nugget you were looking for in those first moments of creative bliss. This very sentence I’m keying now is being written two weeks after the previous writing. I left off due to time constraints, and I’m picking up the narrative now.
Does your intelligence wax and wane as mine? There come days where I feel I actually know something about my world. Then arrive the days where I know I understand virtually nothing. Amazingly, its in these days of nothingness when I write with my highest passion. Does this spring from desperation or leap from blazing a trail into the great unknown.
I prefer to believe in the latter, as desperation leads to depression and disappointment. I don’t even possess an hour this day, just about twenty minutes to sate my writing desire. I love words. I love their power. Their colossal strength. Their ability to woo gently. There frighteningly majestic force which conquers worlds.
Words run through my mind daily, talking, chattering, whispering, screaming, all with intent and purpose to be heard. Yet they’re trapped within the confines of my brain, straining against my sanity, with hellbent, pall mall rushes to burst forth into something, anything, which would dazzle and bemuse others. To morph into something later generations might read and think, “This man created something of value…”
I am not fool enough to speak for all writers, but this writer craves to live past his years with the words in his heart released to the ages for posterity. Delusions of grandeur? Possibly. But somewhere I sense I am not alone. There’s a voice deep within which whispers that most writers wish to live through the ages like Shakespeare.
I have one hour (or less) to make this happen on any given day.