The Writing Process

Here I am again, staring at another blank page - well, not page, I write stories on my phone. You know those moments during the day when you have nothing to do at work so you take out your phone when no one is looking? Then you stare at the blank screen and commit yourself to the gods of writing, if there are any, but you’re fairly certain that if they existed, the writing gods would really enjoy tormenting the people who worship at their altar and - gosh darn it, I think that’s a run-on sentence. It’s so hard when the screen keeps scrolling up, I lose sight of the words. 

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the blank screen. Actually I’m not sure what else I was going to say, except I do a lot of complaining to myself. Writing at least gives me something else in my life to complain about. I sit down and think that I have written the most boring story in the world, but I’m forced to smile and say, “That’s all right, I’m sure I did some kind of good job.” Then I go back to it later, and I want to edit it all but it’s already submitted to the short story contest and I can’t take it back. 

You know, that was supposed to be the point of writing to my mind, which is that, unlike speech (and I’m terrible at speaking, hence the writing), I’m supposed to be able to take back what I said, but that’s not always true, is it? There’s a sort of finality to writing, which only writers know about and are sometimes terrified of. (Am I supposed to use a preposition at the end of a sentence?) Look at George R. R. Martin. If you haven’t read him, don’t feel bad because I’m pretty sure life will be finished with him before he’s finished the book series that has been an ongoing project for more than thirty years. But I don’t know why I’m talking about him since I haven’t read him, except that I wonder if he fears the end of the story. I think it is better to have regrets as a writer who has done something than to never regret and never write at all. 

Oh shoot, what did I sit down to write about? It’s so easy to get distracted by thoughts, and if I try to imagine the story in my head, I go from a perfectly plotted murder mystery to simply random thoughts about work tomorrow, which I am desperately trying hard not to think about, especially since work has nothing to do with writing. That reminds me, I am trying to write a murder mystery, but I can’t think of anything creative. How many people get stabbed in stories? Much more often than in real life, I think. 

This humbug about creativity really gripes my liver, if I may use a phrase that probably hasn’t been used in a hundred years. What exactly is creativity anymore? I could write about a dinosaur that eats a hamburger made of human meat, but I don’t know if anyone would like it, and I’m sure it’s been done by somebody at this point. Yet I’m very fond of characters finding dead bodies, which isn’t creative at all. I just wish creativity wasn’t harped on so much by people in general. You try being creative!

Let’s see, I could write a romance. But I hate romances. Then there is western fiction, but I know nothing about history, and you won’t find me perusing the research section of the library. Fantasy is good for writers who have random bits of knowledge but know nothing else except what they happen to pick up here and there. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to write a fantasy short story - what am I supposed to do? Engage in world building for a maximum of 3,000 words? Shoot me now. 

I’m feeling a little irritated with Virginia Woolf at the moment. She said that all a female writer needs is a room of her own (and at least $500, except that would’ve sounded crass in the title of a philosophical essay). I have more than one room, and if anyone wants to know my financial status, they can check my account. But so far, no luck. I might as well have written on a train leaving Grand Central station with just two dollars in my pocket. 

Where am I going with this? I hate that question when I write. It’s like that moment when you’re driving, you lose focus, then look around you and go, “Wait, did I miss turn?” Write all the time, and if I’m lucky, have a single burst of creativity and relatively good prose, then back down to the depths of my mind where all thoughts get lost. I know I should be more tolerant of my writing ability, if I have any, and people always say that in order to get better one must be used to failure. Somehow, that has never given me any comfort. In fact, it makes me feel worse: if I feel bad when I fail, then that means I’m not even good at failing!

Why bother writing? It’s an awfully painful process to go through, especially for someone who hates it. I don’t hate writing, I’m just impatient, which is very different. Why do I write? I think the thrill of knowing what could go on the page or screen. It’s like being alone and allowed to be as wild as I want. I say what I please, and I tell the words or characters or whatever I’m creating that this is how things have to be. I write for my own satisfaction, unless I write something strange as a prank to amuse someone else, but even that is something I do for myself. I give myself a laugh at the reader’s expense, and then I go back to writing the way I want, much to the disappointment of the reader, who does not realize I pranked him. Most importantly, the reason I write is so I can say to myself, “I’m free.”