You remember my last post about how I was working and writing so hard?
Oh, so much writing I was doing!
I was charging along in my mighty writing muscle car, drifting around the corners of abandoned parking garages like I was part of the Tokyo underground street racing scene. I was trying to get a full first draft done of my WiP as quickly as possible because I knew I was going to have to finish edits on Tabula Rasa come September.
And then I came to a screeching, tire-smoking halt. Because I was writing, as the French say, le crappe.
I think writing is part, “Oh, look at me being so clever” kinds of active, purposeful planning and part receiving something from those mysterious regions of your brain that routinely spit out weird dreams about playing snooker with interstellar space wombats. There’s something special and spooky about creativity, and you have to leave it some room to do its thing.
So, yeah, stories — at least mine — are generated by one part intention and nine parts who the hell knows what.
When I write too fast, I’m not allowing enough time for that “who the hell knows” part to kick in properly and work its mojo. The result? Feeling like what I’m writing is not fully realized. It’s two-dimensional; the fine details are missing. The atmospherics are non-existent. In short, it comes out kinda blah.
So. Tempted as I am to hurry things along, I shouldn’t. I mean, I wish I could pull a lever and increase word-donut production, but I can’t. Everyone has their comfortable pace for creating, and I haven’t been respecting mine.
And those edits have now arrived. But as it’s turned out, that’s been a good thing since I needed a break from the WiP anyway. When I get back to it, I’m going to slow down and hopefully the interstellar space wombats will show up this time.
How ’bout you? Been pushing up against your limits recently?