Writing is not like dancing or modeling. With those art forms, your peak is twenty and it’s all downhill from there. With writing, time and age does nothing but enhance and build one’s skill and understanding. So stop stressing out, trying to write the perfect story right now, and realize that it might not come until you are sixty. But when it does, it will be amazing, formed out of all you’ve done before.
Get on a computer and design the dream cover of your finished book. Print it out and tack it to the wall above where you write. Imagine the way it will feel in your hands, thick and heavy and hot off the presses. Imagine stacking them on shelves like bricks with their beautiful glossy spines shouting your name over and over in authoritative lettering. Imagine a stranger finding it in a bookstore and thumbing through it, wondering if they should buy it.
Repeat every time you find yourself losing interest in your work.
My life has suddenly ceased being a linear plot from beginning to end. Subplots twist out like tendrils, leading down confusing rabbit trails and threatening to plunge me into inescapable plot holes. This is exhausting.
The difficulty faced when trying to accumulate research for a story is directly proportional to the awesomeness of the potential idea itself.
With extremely few exceptions, writers need to be roughly 30 to start writing novels. If you’re under thirty, cut yourself some slack – Douglas Coupland
This has got to be the most heartening news I’ve received all week.
The test of a true writer is when, at some point in the middle of a hectic day, he or she is faced with a choice between an hour’s nap or an hour’s writing session, and chooses the latter.
And once again I take an involuntary trek down Writer’s Block. The view is becoming very familiar . . .
My former writing partner got in touch with me the other night, saying that if we wanted to co-write a second musical, he may be able to supply a space for performance. Instantly, all thoughts of future homework flew out the window and ran away down the fire escape. Once more into that lovely, magical breech . . . And this from the girl who swore never to write a play again.
I cannot bear middles. I dislike writing about them almost as much as I do living through them. Give me exciting beginnings, breathless climaxes, and tearful endings – I am master of them all. But the sheer tedium of pecking out the laborious path from A to B is hell itself.
If my pain or my grief or my loneliness will make me a better writer, I will welcome them. If illness or insanity or death will give my words a special beauty, then let them come.