Once upon a time I was caught in a writing slump. A vicious beast of one where my minuscule but steady
word-count of 500 – 1k a day, suddenly came to a screeching halt with no warning. One day it was there,
the next I could barely spell my name. And what was more, there was no freakin’ reason for it.
In the past there have always been excuses: visiting relatives, exhaustion from holding down a full time
job, a babbling screaming Little Bit who can’t wait for later but must have that plate of blueberries Now
Now!
None of that applied. I’d thrown in my chips, called myself brave, and bet it all on my meager savings and a bevy of unfinished novels that would keep me comfortable (if a bit High Ramen in content),
handed the Little Bit back to his parents, moved out of the city and heavily applied great doses of all
those things that I told myself would make the difference: Time, Energy, No more Distractions. On the cusp of my thirties, single, childless, now was the time, the only person I was responsible for was
me – should my gamble backfire I’d be the only one getting a little leaner and, honestly, who really likes
their thighs?
The first day was great. Relieving, relaxing, a breath of fresh air. No words, but it was just day one.
That was to be expected. And then the second. And then the first week. Still. Nothing. The only thing
that had changed really was the fact that I was now poorer, further away from modern conveniences
like…grocery stores and gas stations, and staring increasingly horrified at the emptily blinking cursor.
In my peak of desperation, word count increased by zero-fold, I consulted with my dear friend and
confidante who also happened to make quite a nice side-living churning out words as a ghostwriter.
‘What was the problem?’ I asked. ‘Was I not meant to be a writer? Why was I doing worse with all of
my brain than I’d done with a quarter of it? Was I some sort of idiot savant doomed to die of starvation,
alone and penniless underneath the huge oak tree that totally lied and was not providing any literary
motivation whatsoever with pages and pages of unfinished manuscripts littering my corpse?’
This is what she told me:
First of all, take a deep breath. Writing is work, but it’s also reward and no one freaks out that they
didn't eat that Klondike bar today like they’d promised themselves. You just try again tomorrow, or the
day after. There are infinite opportunities and it doesn’t have to happen all at once in one big gulp, you can take tiny bites and get the same satisfaction.
Second, writing is a dynamic experience. Like dancing. You can’t watch your way through a fox-trot
nor can you study a blinking cursor through to a novel. Life is what provides texture to our craft. Living
gives us motivation and inspiration and ideas, experience is what changes a flat abstract and lights it up
into a real possibility and universe. By its very nature you have to throw yourself into it – no thought to
mechanics or setting or whether the shade tree is positioned just right over your brow- to experience it.
You just jump in both feet first – the hoping like hell you can swim comes after.
Okay, there was more in the middle about hysteria being unhealthy and Ben and Jerry’s not being the
way and PUT DOWN THE SPOON. But the important parts I covered with perhaps one final thought; it’s
all about your expectations and what I expected was for the words to pour like water, out my mouth,
through my fingertips, all by themselves as if scenery alone was responsible for the density of my
thoughts. But the only things you get without working for aren’t things anyone really wants: malaria,
debt, bedbugs. Today I’m steadily chugging along again working on my third novel, seeking submissions
to my online writer’s forum Sonadoebooks.com, and having a blast living life as an Author. Ambiance
isn’t everything.
This guest post was written by Mari Bayo. Links to her webistes below.
Thank you for contributing to asateenwriter, Mari!
www.sonadoebooks.com www.maribayo.wordpress.com
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Ambiance - An Author's Reminder
Once upon a time I was caught in a writing slump. A vicious beast of one where my minuscule but steady
word-count of 500 – 1k a day, suddenly came to a screeching halt with no warning. One day it was there,
the next I could barely spell my name. And what was more, there was no freakin’ reason for it.
In the past there have always been excuses: visiting relatives, exhaustion from holding down a full time
job, a babbling screaming Little Bit who can’t wait for later but must have that plate of blueberries Now
Now!
None of that applied. I’d thrown in my chips, called myself brave, and bet it all on my meager savings and a bevy of unfinished novels that would keep me comfortable (if a bit High Ramen in content),
handed the Little Bit back to his parents, moved out of the city and heavily applied great doses of all
those things that I told myself would make the difference: Time, Energy, No more Distractions. On the cusp of my thirties, single, childless, now was the time, the only person I was responsible for was
me – should my gamble backfire I’d be the only one getting a little leaner and, honestly, who really likes
their thighs?
The first day was great. Relieving, relaxing, a breath of fresh air. No words, but it was just day one.
That was to be expected. And then the second. And then the first week. Still. Nothing. The only thing
that had changed really was the fact that I was now poorer, further away from modern conveniences
like…grocery stores and gas stations, and staring increasingly horrified at the emptily blinking cursor.
In my peak of desperation, word count increased by zero-fold, I consulted with my dear friend and
confidante who also happened to make quite a nice side-living churning out words as a ghostwriter.
‘What was the problem?’ I asked. ‘Was I not meant to be a writer? Why was I doing worse with all of
my brain than I’d done with a quarter of it? Was I some sort of idiot savant doomed to die of starvation,
alone and penniless underneath the huge oak tree that totally lied and was not providing any literary
motivation whatsoever with pages and pages of unfinished manuscripts littering my corpse?’
This is what she told me:
First of all, take a deep breath. Writing is work, but it’s also reward and no one freaks out that they
didn't eat that Klondike bar today like they’d promised themselves. You just try again tomorrow, or the
day after. There are infinite opportunities and it doesn’t have to happen all at once in one big gulp, you can take tiny bites and get the same satisfaction.
Second, writing is a dynamic experience. Like dancing. You can’t watch your way through a fox-trot
nor can you study a blinking cursor through to a novel. Life is what provides texture to our craft. Living
gives us motivation and inspiration and ideas, experience is what changes a flat abstract and lights it up
into a real possibility and universe. By its very nature you have to throw yourself into it – no thought to
mechanics or setting or whether the shade tree is positioned just right over your brow- to experience it.
You just jump in both feet first – the hoping like hell you can swim comes after.
Okay, there was more in the middle about hysteria being unhealthy and Ben and Jerry’s not being the
way and PUT DOWN THE SPOON. But the important parts I covered with perhaps one final thought; it’s
all about your expectations and what I expected was for the words to pour like water, out my mouth,
through my fingertips, all by themselves as if scenery alone was responsible for the density of my
thoughts. But the only things you get without working for aren’t things anyone really wants: malaria,
debt, bedbugs. Today I’m steadily chugging along again working on my third novel, seeking submissions
to my online writer’s forum Sonadoebooks.com, and having a blast living life as an Author. Ambiance
isn’t everything.
This guest post was written by Mari Bayo. Links to her webistes below.
Thank you for contributing to asateenwriter, Mari!
www.sonadoebooks.com www.maribayo.wordpress.com
word-count of 500 – 1k a day, suddenly came to a screeching halt with no warning. One day it was there,
the next I could barely spell my name. And what was more, there was no freakin’ reason for it.
In the past there have always been excuses: visiting relatives, exhaustion from holding down a full time
job, a babbling screaming Little Bit who can’t wait for later but must have that plate of blueberries Now
Now!
None of that applied. I’d thrown in my chips, called myself brave, and bet it all on my meager savings and a bevy of unfinished novels that would keep me comfortable (if a bit High Ramen in content),
handed the Little Bit back to his parents, moved out of the city and heavily applied great doses of all
those things that I told myself would make the difference: Time, Energy, No more Distractions. On the cusp of my thirties, single, childless, now was the time, the only person I was responsible for was
me – should my gamble backfire I’d be the only one getting a little leaner and, honestly, who really likes
their thighs?
The first day was great. Relieving, relaxing, a breath of fresh air. No words, but it was just day one.
That was to be expected. And then the second. And then the first week. Still. Nothing. The only thing
that had changed really was the fact that I was now poorer, further away from modern conveniences
like…grocery stores and gas stations, and staring increasingly horrified at the emptily blinking cursor.
In my peak of desperation, word count increased by zero-fold, I consulted with my dear friend and
confidante who also happened to make quite a nice side-living churning out words as a ghostwriter.
‘What was the problem?’ I asked. ‘Was I not meant to be a writer? Why was I doing worse with all of
my brain than I’d done with a quarter of it? Was I some sort of idiot savant doomed to die of starvation,
alone and penniless underneath the huge oak tree that totally lied and was not providing any literary
motivation whatsoever with pages and pages of unfinished manuscripts littering my corpse?’
This is what she told me:
First of all, take a deep breath. Writing is work, but it’s also reward and no one freaks out that they
didn't eat that Klondike bar today like they’d promised themselves. You just try again tomorrow, or the
day after. There are infinite opportunities and it doesn’t have to happen all at once in one big gulp, you can take tiny bites and get the same satisfaction.
Second, writing is a dynamic experience. Like dancing. You can’t watch your way through a fox-trot
nor can you study a blinking cursor through to a novel. Life is what provides texture to our craft. Living
gives us motivation and inspiration and ideas, experience is what changes a flat abstract and lights it up
into a real possibility and universe. By its very nature you have to throw yourself into it – no thought to
mechanics or setting or whether the shade tree is positioned just right over your brow- to experience it.
You just jump in both feet first – the hoping like hell you can swim comes after.
Okay, there was more in the middle about hysteria being unhealthy and Ben and Jerry’s not being the
way and PUT DOWN THE SPOON. But the important parts I covered with perhaps one final thought; it’s
all about your expectations and what I expected was for the words to pour like water, out my mouth,
through my fingertips, all by themselves as if scenery alone was responsible for the density of my
thoughts. But the only things you get without working for aren’t things anyone really wants: malaria,
debt, bedbugs. Today I’m steadily chugging along again working on my third novel, seeking submissions
to my online writer’s forum Sonadoebooks.com, and having a blast living life as an Author. Ambiance
isn’t everything.
This guest post was written by Mari Bayo. Links to her webistes below.
Thank you for contributing to asateenwriter, Mari!
www.sonadoebooks.com www.maribayo.wordpress.com
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