mjj (flemmings) wrote,
mjj
flemmings

Yes, *yes*, Mr Pratchett. Now do go away, there's a good fellow.

For more than three years I wrote more than 400 words every day. I mean, every calendar day. If for some reason, in those pre-portable days, I couldn't get to a keyboard, I wrote hard the previous night and caught up the following day, and if it ever seemed that it was easy to do the average I upped the average. I also did a hell of a lot of editing afterwards but the point was there was something there to edit. I had a more than full-time job as well. I hate to say this, but most of the successful (well, okay... rich) authors I know seem to put 'application' around the top of the list of How-to-do-its. Tough but true.

Application? Well, it means... application. The single-minded ability to knuckle down and get on with it, as they say in Unseen University library.

There may be something to this 'online rots the brain' thing. Or maybe I've developed a late case of Adult ADD. I've lost the lead ass ability to sit and read for any length of time. Even if I'm enjoying the book I get restless, fidgety, have to go do something else, play some computer solitaire, whatever. 'There's something more amusing somewhere if I can just find it' which is the curse of the net-- as it was not, I observe, the curse of MLs. The discussions there could keep me happily focussed for hours, though that's partly because I read and type slowly. Even lj doesn't allow for that kind of personal interaction.

As for writing-- the story can still suck me in at times, so that once writing I keep writing and there, 300+ words before i know it. At other times-- no. I get to the point where I left off and the inner toddler digs her heels in and says No I don' wanna this isn't fun, go do something fun go play solitaire instead.

One can write anyway but the experience is deathly. No pictures, no ideas, only the wrong words squeezed out one by one to describe a vacuity, and when the words do come they go in wrong directions so that suddenly I find Gouen sulking because Shanten said No, rather than Gouen in low spirits because his brother is still gone and Pipang doesn't want him and Goukou has stopped treating him like the favoured youngest and the Hermit showed him Goujun in precisely such a way that Gouen won't be able to find him again, which are all perfectly reasonable reasons to be down in the mouth.

Off to hack a trail through that particular jungle patch.
Tags: dragons, pratchett, writing
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