They can be tough to break, especially if they're negative. By that I mean, if you're in the habit of not doing something, you have to actively engage in the doing of something in order to break the habit. It seems simpler to me, somehow, to stop doing something, but maybe that's just because it's late, and hot out, and I'm all sweaty and freaky.
In my case, I've got this terrible habit of not writing. Which is kind of a problem, if you're a writer. In fact, it makes you less of a writer and more of a sitter, or a reader, or a Jai-Lai player.
In my case, I used to write when the muse struck me with her frying pan. And I came across a wonderful quote about that very thing just yesterday, and failed to jot it down. It was essentially this: writing with the muse is wonderful, but she doesn't come all that often, and you've got to have a plan for the rest of the time.
Well, I haven't got one. Not yet. I'm working on it.
I did submit a short story this morning, which is good, and worked on revising another one this evening, which is also good. On the face of it, that's a productive day, but the bit I haven't told you yet is that both these stories were written quite some time ago. In fact, they only existed as hard copy, which I entered into the computer, revising as I went. So I'm still in the not-writing hotseat.
An interesting thing happened, though. I read through the first story a couple of nights ago, and thought, "Huh. Not bad. Not bad at all." It was, in fact, better than anything I've written recently, in terms of voice and use of language and so on. Smooth, you know? And I thought, "I used to write like that? Jesus, what the hell happened?"
I'll tell you what happened. I stopped writing except when the muse threw a lawn dart at my ass. And she did that less and less frequently. So instead of an ongoing practice, writing became a thing that happened occasionally when all the stars were aligned properly and I bloody well felt like it. It became a passive activity.
Another thing happened, as well. I got rusty. My chops, they are dull. Which is what happens. When you don't. Use. Them. Kind of a well, duh! moment, I know. But it was also galvanizing. Use it or lose it. Put up or shut up. Writers write. All of those things rolled up into a single, tightly-wrapped ball of Oh, shit!
I'm not bemoaning all the wasted years or getting pissed at myself for wasting them, because that's just so far away from productive the mere thought of it causes entire factories' worth of ideas to sit idle and smoke cigarettes.
It's such a simple thing, really. Everybody who's anybody does it, and they'll tell you so.
Write.
Every.
Day.
Idiot.
I was hung up on the novel, at first. Had to write that. Which quickly grew constricting and crazy-making. Then I got hung up on everything else. Gotta write this or that short story. Also crazy-making.
So, I'm just going to start writing any damn thing I please, whether it has a plot, a purpose, or any intelligibility whatsoever. Hell, I used to do that all the time on my old blog; it was full of random fictional bits that read like they were lifted out of some longer work. And some of those bits, despite being fragmentary, are actually not terrible, and may contain the seeds of other, better things.
It's such a simple concept, but then most truths are. You don't exercise, you get flabby. You don't practice with your language of choice, you get stiff and creaky. At this point, I'm not going to go nuts trying to discipline my output. I just need to put out.
So to speak.
It doesn't matter what it's about, or whether it sucks, or whether it's a workday or a weekend, or if I'm tired, in a foul mood, or feeling about as inspired as the scudge under the dumpsters outside my window. Gotta do it. Every day. Like lifting weights. Doing scales on the trumpet. Or any one of a dozen other examples of the routine, standard exercise that is the foundation of any practice and upon which craft is built.
Honestly, sometimes I could just smack myself. People tell me the same damn things--people I trust and love--but until some wacko switch in my brain goes off, I don't listen.
Anyway. Listening now. Firing up the laptop, and doing the literary equivalent of jogging along the beach until it's time to stop.
In my case, I've got this terrible habit of not writing. Which is kind of a problem, if you're a writer. In fact, it makes you less of a writer and more of a sitter, or a reader, or a Jai-Lai player.
In my case, I used to write when the muse struck me with her frying pan. And I came across a wonderful quote about that very thing just yesterday, and failed to jot it down. It was essentially this: writing with the muse is wonderful, but she doesn't come all that often, and you've got to have a plan for the rest of the time.
Well, I haven't got one. Not yet. I'm working on it.
I did submit a short story this morning, which is good, and worked on revising another one this evening, which is also good. On the face of it, that's a productive day, but the bit I haven't told you yet is that both these stories were written quite some time ago. In fact, they only existed as hard copy, which I entered into the computer, revising as I went. So I'm still in the not-writing hotseat.
An interesting thing happened, though. I read through the first story a couple of nights ago, and thought, "Huh. Not bad. Not bad at all." It was, in fact, better than anything I've written recently, in terms of voice and use of language and so on. Smooth, you know? And I thought, "I used to write like that? Jesus, what the hell happened?"
I'll tell you what happened. I stopped writing except when the muse threw a lawn dart at my ass. And she did that less and less frequently. So instead of an ongoing practice, writing became a thing that happened occasionally when all the stars were aligned properly and I bloody well felt like it. It became a passive activity.
Another thing happened, as well. I got rusty. My chops, they are dull. Which is what happens. When you don't. Use. Them. Kind of a well, duh! moment, I know. But it was also galvanizing. Use it or lose it. Put up or shut up. Writers write. All of those things rolled up into a single, tightly-wrapped ball of Oh, shit!
I'm not bemoaning all the wasted years or getting pissed at myself for wasting them, because that's just so far away from productive the mere thought of it causes entire factories' worth of ideas to sit idle and smoke cigarettes.
It's such a simple thing, really. Everybody who's anybody does it, and they'll tell you so.
Write.
Every.
Day.
Idiot.
I was hung up on the novel, at first. Had to write that. Which quickly grew constricting and crazy-making. Then I got hung up on everything else. Gotta write this or that short story. Also crazy-making.
So, I'm just going to start writing any damn thing I please, whether it has a plot, a purpose, or any intelligibility whatsoever. Hell, I used to do that all the time on my old blog; it was full of random fictional bits that read like they were lifted out of some longer work. And some of those bits, despite being fragmentary, are actually not terrible, and may contain the seeds of other, better things.
It's such a simple concept, but then most truths are. You don't exercise, you get flabby. You don't practice with your language of choice, you get stiff and creaky. At this point, I'm not going to go nuts trying to discipline my output. I just need to put out.
So to speak.
It doesn't matter what it's about, or whether it sucks, or whether it's a workday or a weekend, or if I'm tired, in a foul mood, or feeling about as inspired as the scudge under the dumpsters outside my window. Gotta do it. Every day. Like lifting weights. Doing scales on the trumpet. Or any one of a dozen other examples of the routine, standard exercise that is the foundation of any practice and upon which craft is built.
Honestly, sometimes I could just smack myself. People tell me the same damn things--people I trust and love--but until some wacko switch in my brain goes off, I don't listen.
Anyway. Listening now. Firing up the laptop, and doing the literary equivalent of jogging along the beach until it's time to stop.
I had nearly the same experience (though out of sheer accident) yesterday. Found myself in a cafe with nothing to do, had a little notebook with me, started drawing. Was first a bit horrified at how rusty I was. Then after about an hour, I started to get better again, and found myself drawing more like I used to when I DREW ALL THE TIME. Silly girl.