The Writing Life
And now, because I missed the deer whole, I want to cut back the honeysuckle – just enough to see I think. See through.
To more?
To beyond and not here?
I am thinking that cutting can shift a thing – release a space, be a new pattern laid.
That clearing a space is like crafting a question.
Lia Purpura, On Looking
If I were to ask Ernest Hemingway how to write a book, I believe he’d scoff and say something about letting the words bleed onto the page. I’m no Hemingway, but I can understand his mindset: there is no right or wrong way to write a book. There is just the process of getting the words onto the page.
A few weeks ago, I was asked if I had any tips for aspiring or new writers. Two things immediately came to mind: read a lot and work with a mentor. I then decided to work on a list because I knew two tips weren’t nearly enough. [Read more…] about 13 Tips for Aspiring Writers
When the words don’t come easily, when I have to fight for every one of them, I take solace in Richard Hugo’s thoughts. He says the hard work put into one piece of writing makes for the sudden ease of a future – not subsequent but future – piece of writing. I keep writing in hopes of finding that “sudden ease,” however brief it may be. A brief moment of ease is like the first drink of water after running a race. Nothing tastes quite as good as that water. Nothing is quite as refreshing.
A notion exists that editors can’t be writers. Why, though, can’t editors be writers? Some people try to explain the impossibility by stating that editing other people’s work all day results in a weariness that precludes the writer from writing. It’s a valid point, but it’s worth pondering whether a person who writes professional copy or repairs automobiles all day can go home and write poetry or fiction. Can that person? Usually, people say yes. Why, then, can’t the same be said of editors?
The curse of the blank page is an actual phenomenon. You, the writer, come to the page, and nothing pours forth from your head or hands. You stare at the blinking cursor, and it stares back at you. You feel yourself diminish underneath the weight of its gaze. Your ideas, already a trickle, stop altogether. Your well runs dry. You wonder if the source of water has been depleted entirely or if it’s time to move onto a new well. You wonder a lot of things when faced with the blank page and the blinking cursor.