I was all atwitter yesterday, ready to have a super awesome writing session for Raven’s Speech. I was going to write 2,000 words. No, 3,000 and the back cover blurb. I had caffeine, I had time, and I was going to conquer this shit like a heathen raider of the ancient world.
Then the sink exploded and took most of the garage plumbing with it, and I abruptly remembered that, no, I’m not some special creature put on this earth just to string words into stories. Life is full of shitstorms and doesn’t care about my literary magnificence. Life insists there must be calls to plumbers who know what to do with the complications borne of sixty-year-old pipes gone crabby with age. Life knows how to wreck the simplest of plans.
The pipes weren’t fixed (complications, complications…) but were patched up enough to stop the leaking, and by the time the plumbers had left for the day, all I wanted was to cram a bunch of chocolate in my mouth and watch something loud and stupid and fun.
But I’ve been at this long enough to dig deep and type away, and instead of regressing into a slug after cleaning up and making myself eat something healthier than a king-sized candy bar, I managed half a page for Raven’s Speech. About 150 words since I write in a double-spaced format. Not very impressive. However, the most important thing is that I still wrote, because I’m fucking lazy and it’s so very easy to put aside a story and rationalize the act to myself. I’m too tired today. I’ll make up for it tomorrow.
Poisonous thinking, that, because the next thing I know, the calendar says it’s a new month and I’m left blinking myself out a stupor of creative stagnation.
Now look, I’m not a natural masochist. I don’t go for the “I suffer for my art” way of things, not anymore, because I did that for years and had the mental breakdown to prove it. Most people, including me, are not well-oiled machines that can churn out an obscene word count every day. But I do write daily, even if it’s just a little, because whenever life flings shit at me like a rude monkey, I’m so used to writing that I just keep at it.
It’s persistence, and I’ve learned that’s the most important part of being a writer. Having endless ideas and solid writing skills is gravy, but being a tenacious motherfucker is what keeps you going.