Admission: I did spend over an hour after I got home this evening chatting online, which is all writing, before I turned my attention here…
Every night – at least most nights – this is a struggle.
But often – at least sometimes – something unexpected and decent plops out of my head and onto the keyboard, my fingers then pressing it into the computer through the keys. Not sure how much the words, even the plotting and the sequence of the letters, the keys, the way those distant sinews and muscles in my fingers, my wrists, my arms, my left elbow as it slips back and forth on my chair’s arm – how much they may all mold my thoughts in some quite Hendrix-deficient feedback.
Like a lot of Stephen King’s novels are about writers wallowing under writer’s block – but not before they have found sudden success enough so that they can live comfortably for a year and a half without working, while some daemon begins to unravel evil around them. Writing about writing is lame. I know it.
You don’t hear any songs about singing. Well, okay, a few by Leonard Cohen. And not many symphonies programmed around writing a symphony.
But a lot of plays about acting. Which isn’t playwriting, but plays are more about words than even poetry is. For some reason writing about writing is acceptable, barely; lame but barely acceptable. Maybe just among writers and those who want to be writers, who happen to be readers.
And writing about writing can quickly – and appropriately – come to a grinding, shrieking halt before it is really