I have got to get some kind of writing done.
Kentucky, like many middle states, is prized for its bipolar weather: steamy summers and long, harsh winters. It's the end of July and normally, you can't even look outside without breaking a sweat. Saturday was a horrible, dreary day with rain that wouldn't make up its mind and that awful kind of overcast where you can never tell what time of day it is. Then Sunday dawns with the clearest, bluest sky. The kind of sky that moves you to tears.
That's what makes living in Kentucky worth it.
Day two of our fantastic weather front. Yesterday, due to listlessness and sheer, bloody boredom, I decided to put the screens in our windows. (God only knows why this house doesn't have any screens in the windows.) And since my dad had company, I'd put them in myself. ('Cause man, I'm legit like that.)
After discovering I had the wrong sized screens, three trips down to the boiler room in the basement, and ten minutes of not figuring out how to pop the window out, I finally installed the screens in my windows and promptly left them wide open the entire, gloriously cool evening.
First thing this morning, I moaned and groaned and mentally wrestled myself to get out of bed and raised my windows up. My cat was very pleased.
Now, it's nearing the time of day where the temperature normally begins to spike, yet my windows are still wide open and my cat is prowling along the sill.
And as I sit here and pick at stuff around my room, I'm avoiding the massive, ink-splattered elephant trying to figure out its way onto my desk chair.
This is the best possible weather for writing, because I'm soaking it in and feeling inspired, and yet there's no writing going on. Seriously, how can I have billowing, white, lace curtains and not be writing? I can't even bring myself to read for some unholy reason. And I'm bored, which frankly, always leads to me baking something, which I normally regret because it's just me and my dad in this house and how in the world are we going to eat another one of my pies*?
I got Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and The Courage to Write by Ralph Keyes the other day at Half-Price Books. Both of their contentions hold to the same effect: for God's sake, just do it. It may be horrible, but at least it'll be something.
Here's something else, too, that may help, and writing about it here may get me to try it and stick with it:
You know how you have epiphanies in weird places? Mine normally come in the shower or while I'm washing my hands or something. (Is water conducive to creativity?) Well I was there, right, and this idea unfolded inside my head: why not just treat each scene like an accordion and edit my way to writing?
See, I love editing. Editing is my jam. It's the creation of prose that I can't really get into. So what if I trick myself into writing by editing? Here's what I mean:
What if I lay out the bare bones of my scene, like outlining, and then just refine it more and more... Add more details, rearrange some ideas, just like if I were editing?
Isn't this a fantastic idea? Actually, I'm going to go try it.
As soon as I go get the mail.
* = My pies are fantastic, just so you know. I mean, dear God, the nit-pickiest member of my extended family told me I should just take all the money I'm putting towards college and open a bakery. Yeah, I've got mad baking skills.
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