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.