I run.
Well, I suppose you can't exactly call what I do "running". It's probably not even "jogging." It's more like "plodding:" I get out there, and, for about three miles, make my resistant legs move faster than a walk… but not much. It's far from glamorous, but over the years, plodding along has helped me to keep my weight down and my endurance up. In short, plodding works.
It occurred to me the other day that my writing habits are just like my exercise habits. While I know some writers who pursue their craft with apparent effortless ease, dusting out their stories with the grace of a gazelle, I'm not one of them. I wish I sat down and wrote great prose. I wish I planned out the course ahead of time, trained carefully and then sped through first drafts, words racing from brain to fingers in smooth and even keystrokes. I wish I were poetry in motion.
But I'm not. I plod. I make my resistant fingers and my reluctant brain work for the allotted hour(s) and quit, thankfully, with the same sigh of exhausted relief I sigh when my exercise time is through.
Writing is hard— we all know it. Every one wants to be a writer, but few people actually get further than the "idea". Why? It's hard. Making a plot gel? Hard. Creating realistic characters? Hard. Writing dialogue and action? Hard. Getting the spelling and the grammar and the verb tenses all in perfect synchronization? Hard.
And perhaps the hardest thing of all about writing is maintaining the discipline to keep after it day after day—especially when the blank page turns mocking. You don't know what you're doing, my paper often taunts me with these words. What you're writing is absolute crap and you know it. What makes you think you can be a writer anyway?
But thank God for plodding, and the… uh… lowered expectations it offers. Plodding serves me well on those days when every word is a piece of pure, unadulterated b.s… and that nasty little voice (I've named her "Blank Page Girl" ) starts hissing discouragement with every sentence I write. Plodding saves because plodding is unspectacular: plodding is just moving along, getting some words on the paper, getting unglamourously from point A to point B. Yeah, yeah, I tell Blank Page Girl, plodding along. I know, it's garbage. But I said I was gonna do three pages, and I'm gonna do three pages. I didn't say I was gonna do three fast pages, I didn't say I was gonna do three good pages. I said I was gonna do three pages and I'm doing them.
It's the same thing I tell myself when I'm running… I mean… jogging… I mean… you know what I mean. I'm going to do these three miles today. I don't have to do them fast, I don't have to look good while I'm doing them, I just have to finish my three miles.
I plod my way through those three miles, then I come home and plod my way through three pages (or five or ten, as time and deadlines permit or require). Then I close the file and go on with my life. The next day, after I check in with the Idea Fairy (we'll talk about her another time) I open the file and plod through some more pages… until one day I wake up and generally, one of two things has happened: either I have a rough draft of a new romance novel; or I realize I'm stuck and I have to read it from the beginning to figure out what to do next.
Both take me to the next stage, revision, where (guess what?) I plod my way through making changes until one day I wake up and I have a book.
Plodding isn't for everyone—and certainly every writer has a different process. But if you're struggling with the discipline to finish your story, I offer it as a suggestion.
Plodding, anyone?
Karyn
Karyn Langhorne
A PERSONAL MATTER
coming Sept. 1
Well, I suppose you can't exactly call what I do "running". It's probably not even "jogging." It's more like "plodding:" I get out there, and, for about three miles, make my resistant legs move faster than a walk… but not much. It's far from glamorous, but over the years, plodding along has helped me to keep my weight down and my endurance up. In short, plodding works.
It occurred to me the other day that my writing habits are just like my exercise habits. While I know some writers who pursue their craft with apparent effortless ease, dusting out their stories with the grace of a gazelle, I'm not one of them. I wish I sat down and wrote great prose. I wish I planned out the course ahead of time, trained carefully and then sped through first drafts, words racing from brain to fingers in smooth and even keystrokes. I wish I were poetry in motion.
But I'm not. I plod. I make my resistant fingers and my reluctant brain work for the allotted hour(s) and quit, thankfully, with the same sigh of exhausted relief I sigh when my exercise time is through.
Writing is hard— we all know it. Every one wants to be a writer, but few people actually get further than the "idea". Why? It's hard. Making a plot gel? Hard. Creating realistic characters? Hard. Writing dialogue and action? Hard. Getting the spelling and the grammar and the verb tenses all in perfect synchronization? Hard.
And perhaps the hardest thing of all about writing is maintaining the discipline to keep after it day after day—especially when the blank page turns mocking. You don't know what you're doing, my paper often taunts me with these words. What you're writing is absolute crap and you know it. What makes you think you can be a writer anyway?
But thank God for plodding, and the… uh… lowered expectations it offers. Plodding serves me well on those days when every word is a piece of pure, unadulterated b.s… and that nasty little voice (I've named her "Blank Page Girl" ) starts hissing discouragement with every sentence I write. Plodding saves because plodding is unspectacular: plodding is just moving along, getting some words on the paper, getting unglamourously from point A to point B. Yeah, yeah, I tell Blank Page Girl, plodding along. I know, it's garbage. But I said I was gonna do three pages, and I'm gonna do three pages. I didn't say I was gonna do three fast pages, I didn't say I was gonna do three good pages. I said I was gonna do three pages and I'm doing them.
It's the same thing I tell myself when I'm running… I mean… jogging… I mean… you know what I mean. I'm going to do these three miles today. I don't have to do them fast, I don't have to look good while I'm doing them, I just have to finish my three miles.
I plod my way through those three miles, then I come home and plod my way through three pages (or five or ten, as time and deadlines permit or require). Then I close the file and go on with my life. The next day, after I check in with the Idea Fairy (we'll talk about her another time) I open the file and plod through some more pages… until one day I wake up and generally, one of two things has happened: either I have a rough draft of a new romance novel; or I realize I'm stuck and I have to read it from the beginning to figure out what to do next.
Both take me to the next stage, revision, where (guess what?) I plod my way through making changes until one day I wake up and I have a book.
Plodding isn't for everyone—and certainly every writer has a different process. But if you're struggling with the discipline to finish your story, I offer it as a suggestion.
Plodding, anyone?
Karyn
Karyn Langhorne
A PERSONAL MATTER
coming Sept. 1
