Monday, July 26, 2010

Running, Writing (I do one, not the other)

Bryan Russell, Writing With Sneakers: as I said in my comment, I'm not a runner, but there's a lot to be said for the metaphor. I've often been called "prolific" (probably the best of the things said about me in recent times, LOL!), and when people ask me how I "do it," I've been very long-winded in my answer. The truth, though, is just this and only this: I write. Nearly every day. As much as I can, usually more than I think I can. There's no science to it.

Sure, I think that part of my success (success here being defined as merely producing xx amount of words and finishing xx amount of projects, not quality of those words or type of recognition for having written them) is because I approach this as my job, though it does not now and almost assuredly never will pay the bills. I read novels, anthologies, online zines by the dozen, agent blogs, editor blogs, author blogs, blogs about fuckall, the back of the cereal box, the back end of the construction guy building a new deck for one of my clients and whose ass doesn't have words on it but if it did those words would be Fuck, am I delicious or what? (yes you are, mister)

And then I write, and I think about all those things and then I get angry and toss them out the window and then later realize they may have been right about that thing, you know, that thing they said. But still, I write.

Read Bryan's thinky thoughts and then go directly to the Rejectionist's blog, which he has nicely linked to and which I am too lazy. And then SACK UP.

I can use that phrase because I have been using "balls to the wall" since I was 15. Some days, B comes home and finds me sitting on the couch, drained and ragged. He says, "How was your day, honey?" and I stare at nothing as I sit, hunched over, and say, "Balls to the wall, man. Balls to the wall." And then I shake my head and take another drag on my cigarette which is really green tea with honey. And he tells me how he hates that phrase and wishes I would stop using it.

I won't.

So look, quit yer bitchin', as my dad likes to say. Sack up, write something, send it off. You could even send it to me. In fact, comment here with it. Show me how ballsy you are. Because I am tired of excuses, except the one which gets me out of mowing the lawn. And yes, this worked before: right here. Dude, I do not know who you are, but your comment was glorious. Other comments stare at you and wish they knew what you were talking about, but it's okay, because I do. Maybe.


  1. Great post, thanks! Quit yer bitchin' indeed. Sack up. I loved Bryan and le R's posts, too.

    Glad I stumbled on over to your blog,
    that rebel, Olivia

  2. Stumbling is how I've found many an interesting blog. It's also how I went down my front steps this morning. (nothing broken, no worries) So glad you stopped by, Olivia J. Herrell.

  3. Rolled up like thin parchment
    Fingers curling up rose petals
    White dead skin on the counter
    Look at what this privilege hath gotten me,
    more voice then a black woman
    And I hate that dead white skin
    for its simpering voice and empty sinks
    for the loudness that speaks empty

  4. Jenny. Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. That's some poetry. I'm not even sure I know what it means, but it's like looking at modern art and coming up with your own meaning and I have got some ideas, woman.

    Those first two lines creep me out. Good stuff, all of it.

    Thanks for sharing!

  5. Thanks for responding and the metaphor!

  6. I´m always imploding in a brain near you ;)

    And yes, freedom is precious. Here, I allow myself to pursue whatever I feel like pursuing, I go where my desire takes me and read anything that increases my heart-rate. I find it very much promotes my creativity.

    Your writing and your opinions continue to interest me, so I´m here to read. I take full responsibility for my presence here, nobody owes me anything. We should all just do what we feel like and I´m sure all of our creativity will benefit from it =)

  7. Ah! I thought it was you. :)

    I agree with everything in your second paragraph regarding freedom and what you've found here. I find it the same. I was creative elsewhere, this is just taking me in new directions, and I find it stimulating, to say the least. Glad you enjoy it here as well.

    Thank you so much for reading -- and commenting. Your caterillar story is incredible, and brilliantly written.

  8. Heee, heart-rate is up! Thanks hon =)

  9. NO DATE #13

    staying true to a blurred sense of the
    heart his eyes scanned the city-
    ladened horizon for colors not to be
    used for hours until the sun's grip on
    the day waned and the moon's tenacious,
    yet humbled, attitude began to flare over
    the arena of the world.
    the cooly deft piano's cry - tim only
    knew too well how to awash the surf of
    his misfiring soul onto the face of the
    keys - had begged for deep blues to stain
    the sky, bordered in its lining with
    bright orange fragments - the final
    columns of the day fighting, striking
    out to the end, to the death.

  10. Steve, this in incredible.

    city-ladened horizon

    his misfiring soul

    Those are two that I wish I'd written myself, but then entire thing is gorgeous. The way you've arranged the lines, the language -- just beautiful.

    Thank you so much for leaving this here. What a lovely thing to wake up to this morning.

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