I realized when I took this challenge upon myself to write a post every day chronicling my writing every day for a year, that there would be days I don’t write. But as I look at it now, I should have written a fucking blog about not writing, because that’s what I do more of.
Also, while I’m on the subject of writing a blog, let me just say this: committing to writing something every day sounds like the easiest thing in the world. I mean, I work at a computer, I can write 500 words easier than eating a burger or sitting on the toilet. (Not the best two examples to give, but sort of fitting.) Imagine this though:
Some douchebag challenges you to bounce a ball in the same spot, once, every day for a year. The spot is easy, right outside your house on the sidewalk, say, and the ball is an easy-to-hold Super Bounce, the kind you might get out of one of those shitty ¢25 machines in a Walmart entryway. You agree, thinking this is stupid, how easy is it to walk outside and bounce a dumb ball in the same spot.
The first few weeks are super easy, as people gather and clap. After that, though, there’s only the guy who challenged you. He holds a clipboard and a pen and checks off that day when you bounce the ball. As the days wear on, you stroll out to greet him, and his face takes on sinister Stephen King-like features: a sweaty sneer, mumbling, an odd tic when he swipes with the pen for that day’s checkmark. One day you forget. You went to work, came home, scrambled to get the kids to bed, fell asleep, and found him at your door in the morning, a creepy, white toothed grin on his face.
“You’ll have to do two today,” he says.
“To catch up,” he adds, in case it wasn’t clear.
For some reason, bouncing the ball more than once is extra irritating. The man loudly giggles between bounces, and you have no idea why. You have no idea why you agreed to do this either, but the weight of the promise is behind it, so you bounce, and you’ll continue to bounce.
And so I write. Maybe the point of writing a writing blog will be to see how hard it is to actually write, at least when you’re not a professional writer. I try, I really do. I catch time after work, on breaks, jot stuff on my phone using Keep. If I were into cars, I’d have a couple rebuilt by now. If I were into gaming, I’d be, I don’t know I’m not into gaming, a 20th level tiefling warlock/rogue. (That’s probably old rules, and no one plays D&D anymore, it’s all shit I’ve never heard of.)
But I write. I vent. I revise. I tweet (try). I vent.
Tomorrow, Monday, I will write again. Revise, rearrange those parts, maybe shuffle scenes again. I’m looking at some Twitter contest horseshit in August, even though I vented about that recently. I am going to work with a pro editor soon, assuming she has time, at least some help with a critique and maybe a query letter, because–fuck–I hate query letters.
And so, I bid adieu.