Writing is hard.
I love it. I really love it. But sometimes it’s super difficult to actually sit down and do it. To be honest, that’s why I’m writing this blog post instead of working on my new book. It’s easier to blog than write fiction; blogs are essentially like journal entries, more stream-of-consciousness than anything else.
Writing fiction is great once I get in the flow. Which usually happens after I check facebook six times, text a friend to tell her I’m not writing when I should be, browse Buzzfeed and see if anything funny has happened lately… really anything so I don’t have to face all the blank space, the pages where I know words will eventually be written, but aren’t yet.
I read really quickly. Really, really quickly. I read about a hundred pages an hour if I’m really into a book. I can finish a four-hundred page book in an afternoon without much problem. But sometimes I’ll stop and look at the two pages I read in about thirty seconds. Two pages can take me an hour to write– or all afternoon, depending on how easy a writing day it is. Sometimes I know I’m writing good stuff, because the words fit together seamlessly, like stitches on a sewing machine. Other days my writing brain is a lump of playdough, and I can’t get it to form anything other than a misshapen clod. Sometimes I know the words I’m writing will never see the light of day–they’ll be revised so heavily I couldn’t compare them later.
But it’s okay. As long as I keep writing, even on the bad days, it’ll eventually form into a book with chapters and nouns and semi-colons; and hopefully this book will make someone’s day just a bit more beautiful.