Yep. I’ll admit it. I’ve read all the writing advice that says you are supposed to write every day no matter what. I’ve read the writing advice that says to track word counts and write the same way you work out and to drag your carcass from your deathbed to your desk lest you be caught out as a poseur instead of an auteur.
I don’t care anymore. I do not care. Why? Because I wait for the story to find me. When it does I work on it with the fevered joy of reunited lovers. (Ugh. What a terrible sentence. Really. It makes me slightly nauseated. I’m leaving it in because this is one of my “you are not allowed to hit the backspace key” posts. I only delete typos, not gawksome phrases.)
I write all the time. I write blog entries, emails, Facebook status updates. And lest you decide to loftily declare those things to be “not writing”, let me tell you that all writing is communication and if I can’t clearly communicate my thoughts on politics or religion or pet care or movies and episodic television to people I fail to see how I can adequately communicate a story carved out of my imagination. The mechanics of story telling are more difficult than people first realise. As a long-time reader I can see the difference between those who do it well and those who do it poorly. Doing it poorly always involves a failure to communicate the tale.
So I’ve been waiting for the story to find me, and find me it has and tell it I have been. I love the way it comes together, the increases and decreases that shape the fabric of it. I love how things are happening that make it beautiful.