Lately I’ve taken to beating my head against my novel again. Never mind the loud, inner voice that’s telling me everything I’m writing is crap. I’m doing it anyway. Because self-flagellation went out of style with the bubonic plague.
In the midst of this, I stumbled over a witty blog post by Kenna Griffith, who I don’t know, but who I’m sure is a way better writer than me. Than I? Is better than I? Can write better than … oh nuts to it. Anyway, she provides 12 Most Worth Documenting Writing Quotes, which is a title that I really want to edit. I suspect there’s a kind of performance art in there, somehow.
A couple of these quotes seem particularly appropriate. They sum up my existence nicely, of late.
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
Yeah … but is it really socially acceptable? I mean, there’s a reason why this next bit of advice is necessary:
Write drunk, edit sober.
I actually don’t drink and write because when I do the sober editing consists of me pressing the ‘delete’ key over and over and over again. Not that writing sober makes things better, on either speed or quality. Sobriety brings meaning to this advice:
The road to hell is paved with adverbs.
And suddenly I understood how poorly I’m doing with my long, slow, pitiful writing efforts. Which brings me to this quote. It sums things up rather succinctly, I think:
There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.
But, sadly, I can’t take even that advice. ‘Cuz it isn’t a typewriter, it’s a laptop, and if I opened a vein I’d short the damn thing out.
Back to the lash for me!