In my writing and in life, I’ve often found that I have to keep going even when (especially when) I reach a breaking point. Be it writing, swimming, household chores, hiking, research– the best part is after you climb that one seemingly insurmountable hill– the other side’s where that gorgeous sunrise is at, or that wonderful dizzy feeling of making your 10th lap (I learned swimming two years ago, so), or that shiny house or that nugget of information. In writing, especially, every time I’ve pushed harder to a more painful place, or to a higher word count, I have found something worth keeping.
This is so true when it comes to writing fiction. No matter what, showing up on the page is important. I did this scribble of colors on a blocked day, and it works as my reminder. Letting it go and expressing yourself is all you need on some days. Do you ever get blocked? Or…
Do you take joy in your reading, writing and general day to day life?
I write often at a food court in one of the shopping malls in the neighbourhood. Today I have 600 words already under my belt when I set off, so I do not feel that fear which always accompanies an empty page. But I do have to start a chapter, and that is hard.
Sometimes the best way to write is just wait for it to come, and surround myself with the hum of conversation, with the clatter of cutlery thrown against ceramic plates, the muted screech of chairs drawn out from under the tables, the whir of the food processor as yet another milkshake is born.
Over the last weeks of writing a story a day, I have come to the following conclusion: I will keep writing fiction on my blog, because it challenges me, and I enjoy it. Yes, the writing process is never complete without the readers and their reactions– but there is something to be said for perseverance. If my craft is lacking, practice would help. If blogs aren’t the best place for fiction, well, they’re still the best place to play around and experiment. Most of the stories I have written during the challenge are in genres I wouldn’t have written but for the prompts I was sent. So it is all good.
They creep up on you so quiet that before you hear the whisper of their footsteps, they already have their arms around you, looking over your shoulders, nudging your cheek with their noses like the familiar, errant lovers you let back into your life more than once, only to regret it.
Curved glass walls bear me down. I slip and slide, slow but relentless as I scribble, pencil in hand, and think of Alice, wonder whether she would have written all that clever stuff down instead of blabbering it if only she had a pencil in hand as she followed the rabbit. My writing makes about as much sense as her picturing herself crossing the earth and coming out at the other end to find people hanging upside down, but that does not stop me using my pencil.