I’ve been twisting my words like licorice – tweaking, cajoling, poeticizing, intensifying, and making the pages (not even so old) shimmer like new. It’s funny how rejection can make you pout, then rage, then listen and swear, with Scarlett and God as my witness, that I will never go rebuffed – or was it hungry? – again!
On Friday night, I took a train-ride. Printed manuscript in hand, I scribbled away while scenes of green country fields, college campuses in the glows of a pink sunset, the Washington monument in lights, and city after city rolled by.
What do you think of when you imagine a writer?
Tweed coat with patches? Someone thoughtful and contemplative, who could get lost in his staring out to the horizon? Sitting in a leather chair surrounded by a personal library? Perhaps sitting in a Paris café?
It’s funny how the first thoughts that come to mind usually don’t include the drive, the persistence, and the hours upon hours of work involved. The beautiful part is, though, that I love every second of it.
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I'll have to dig out the quote, but someone said, writing is easy, you just have to bleed for it.
ReplyDeleteGlad you love it - I come at it from the kicking and screaming and flailing end. Like Kyle Mills said at the Conference couple of years ago - he can't Not write! Working with numbers is So much easier but the compulsion is in him to write.
If everyone realized it was such hard work would anyone in their right mind write?
Hmmmm, that does say something about us as writers, huh? ;)