Writely So
Some contend that writers are an arrogant lot, that it takes an over-inflated ego for one to assume what they have to say is relevant, interesting or useful to others. I’ve wondered (worried) about this for years. Does my desire to write make me arrogant?
But after much consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that that is not my experience at all. For me, writing is a strange paradoxical act that is both humbling, yet purely selfish. The process of finding the right words to string together to clearly conjure a particular idea or image can be a rather wretched experience. I’m not trying to impress or necessarily convince anyone of anything. Rather, I write to make sense of things for myself, to organize the jumble in my brain. Like clothes tumbling in a dryer that I remove, shake out, and fold or hang neatly. That’s how the writing process works for me. And just to dispel any myths of it being a glamorous affair, I’ll give you a peek behind the curtain as to how it usually goes.
I make a pot of coffee, feed the cat and dog while coffee perks, then sit down with a cup and open up my laptop.
Stare off into nowhere for a few minutes, take a few sips of coffee. Type an opening line.
Get up and let the dog out. Go back to my desk. Re-read first sentence and delete it. Drink more coffee. Type three new sentences, then get up to let the dog back in. On my way back to my desk, notice an unopened piece of mail on the counter and check to see if it’s important. Then I go back to my desk and re-read the three sentences. Erase one and switch the order of the other two, add a comma. Look out the window and watch the neighbor’s dog cross the street to poop in my yard, then spend 10 minutes fantasizing about all the creative ways I could handle that. Crack my neck and re-read the two sentences; take out the comma. Drink more coffee, chew a torn cuticle, check my email, pet the cat as she walks across my keyboard. Go to the kitchen and make a fresh pot of coffee (because somehow that first one is gone), look in the fridge for several minutes, thinking about what I’m writing, close door and get more coffee. Sit down and type a couple more sentences. Let the dog out again. Sit back down, erase the new sentences. Get up and check sore tooth in bathroom mirror, because anything that hurts that bad should look bad. Wander back to desk, type a couple new sentences. Erase one. Type another sentence. Get a brilliant idea, and type for 10 minutes straight. Gaze out window for a solid seven minutes. Realize I’ve over calculated my brilliance, spend the next 30 minutes editing last two paragraphs down to three strong sentences.
Rinse, and repeat until complete.
I don’t know how it is for other people that write, but for me, it’s always some variation of that. So, if, at the end of the day, this makes me arrogant, then so be it. It’s far too lavish a lifestyle to give up now.
