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hawkwing_lbAn odd thing, writing.
Sometimes - like now, for example - I can't see how I'll ever be any good at it, much less do myself any good by continuing to try. The odds, after all, are stacked fairly heavily against any would-be author, and I am not precisely renowned for my amazing successes. Nor, indeed, for my stamina in any particular enterprise.
But I was talking about writing.
Whenever I find myself about to quit - to give up entirely on the damn thing - I find myself lured back. Undeniably, and rather inescapably.
But see, there's a problem with that. I was having a little look at the things I want from my life right now -
my degree: college, hours of study
money: a job, hours of work
karate: if I ever want to improve, or even regain my old standards, that's four or five hours a week at least in training
my fitness: another four or five hours a week in the gym to build any sort of aerobic stamina, barely counting an upper-body workout
- and there doesn't seem to be a lot of room left on the agenda for another serious pasttime*.
Writing, in the past, has always been one of my 'serious' pasttimes, but if I'm not to drive myself crazy, I need to let it be recreational. Fun. No goals, no deadlines, no pressure. I will be as satisfied with 5 words as 500.
*resolution*
---
The latest odd thing about writing - mine, at any rate - is that I seem to be growing more aware of the presence of a narrator. Not a character, and not me - just an extra filter there, between me and the characters, between me and the created world. And thus, I'm starting to examine - evaluate, perhaps, is the better word - every word - each phrase - in terms of that filter of perception.
Progress, of a sort? I don't know. I do feel rather hopeless about the whole thing right now. Even though I received the most complimentary rejection possible, this evening, it's still a rejection, and although I can - sometimes - see what I'm doing wrong, I don't know how to put it right. Or more right, at least. I feel as though I'm groping about in the dark, trying to figure anything out, and that's not an enjoyable feeling.
---
*My 'serious' pasttimes tend to get taken so seriously they no longer qualify as 'fun'. This has proven to be a seriously unhealthy trend, when taken too far.
Sometimes - like now, for example - I can't see how I'll ever be any good at it, much less do myself any good by continuing to try. The odds, after all, are stacked fairly heavily against any would-be author, and I am not precisely renowned for my amazing successes. Nor, indeed, for my stamina in any particular enterprise.
But I was talking about writing.
Whenever I find myself about to quit - to give up entirely on the damn thing - I find myself lured back. Undeniably, and rather inescapably.
But see, there's a problem with that. I was having a little look at the things I want from my life right now -
my degree: college, hours of study
money: a job, hours of work
karate: if I ever want to improve, or even regain my old standards, that's four or five hours a week at least in training
my fitness: another four or five hours a week in the gym to build any sort of aerobic stamina, barely counting an upper-body workout
- and there doesn't seem to be a lot of room left on the agenda for another serious pasttime*.
Writing, in the past, has always been one of my 'serious' pasttimes, but if I'm not to drive myself crazy, I need to let it be recreational. Fun. No goals, no deadlines, no pressure. I will be as satisfied with 5 words as 500.
*resolution*
---
The latest odd thing about writing - mine, at any rate - is that I seem to be growing more aware of the presence of a narrator. Not a character, and not me - just an extra filter there, between me and the characters, between me and the created world. And thus, I'm starting to examine - evaluate, perhaps, is the better word - every word - each phrase - in terms of that filter of perception.
Progress, of a sort? I don't know. I do feel rather hopeless about the whole thing right now. Even though I received the most complimentary rejection possible, this evening, it's still a rejection, and although I can - sometimes - see what I'm doing wrong, I don't know how to put it right. Or more right, at least. I feel as though I'm groping about in the dark, trying to figure anything out, and that's not an enjoyable feeling.
---
*My 'serious' pasttimes tend to get taken so seriously they no longer qualify as 'fun'. This has proven to be a seriously unhealthy trend, when taken too far.
