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To write, and that is all
Aug. 31st, 2006 09:42 pmIn regards to the 3-Day Novel Contest I am entering this weekend.
There's a new document on my computer's desktop. It seems to have a pulse. I can hear it; I can feel its echo in my chest. I don't know if I'm going to able to sleep tonight, much less tomorrow night, because it is so loud.
The document whispers to me: Why are you doing this?
It is a good question. I don't know that my answers are good enough:
Because it is there to do.
Because I want to be able to say that I did it.
Because there's a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy chance that mine will be the best.
Perhaps I should create more noble reasons. I should have a story that must be told, a perspective that will change the world, or a muse that demands obedience.
To be a Writer*, I would be more tortured and driven, more romantic and artistic.
Really, I just write, but I think a little part of me wants to be a Writer, so I enter challenges and contests that let me play at it for awhile.
Are you ready for this?
I don't know how the story ends. I'm nervous, because I like to have a clear plan for everything, but I am trying to trust that I will figure out what to say by the time I am saying it.
Why are you doing this?
Because I've sent in the non-refundable $50 registration fee.
Because I told my Mom I was going to do it.
Because it is a good excuse to ignore the housework, eat junk food, and have Russ make me coffee.
Are you ready for this?
No, but that's OK. I don't have to be ready for everything. I can't be ready for everything. I'm a planner; this is the closest I've gotten to flying without a net.
Are you ready for this?
The closer it gets to the start of 12:01 AM Saturday, the less sure I am that I know what I'm doing or how I'm going to do it.
Why are you doing this?
The closer it gets to the start time, the less sure I am of why. But I am still sure that I want to do it.
One novel in three days.
I'm sure I will do it.
*With a deliberate Winnie-the-Pooh-like capital W.
There's a new document on my computer's desktop. It seems to have a pulse. I can hear it; I can feel its echo in my chest. I don't know if I'm going to able to sleep tonight, much less tomorrow night, because it is so loud.
The document whispers to me: Why are you doing this?
It is a good question. I don't know that my answers are good enough:
Because it is there to do.
Because I want to be able to say that I did it.
Because there's a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy chance that mine will be the best.
Perhaps I should create more noble reasons. I should have a story that must be told, a perspective that will change the world, or a muse that demands obedience.
To be a Writer*, I would be more tortured and driven, more romantic and artistic.
Really, I just write, but I think a little part of me wants to be a Writer, so I enter challenges and contests that let me play at it for awhile.
Are you ready for this?
I don't know how the story ends. I'm nervous, because I like to have a clear plan for everything, but I am trying to trust that I will figure out what to say by the time I am saying it.
Why are you doing this?
Because I've sent in the non-refundable $50 registration fee.
Because I told my Mom I was going to do it.
Because it is a good excuse to ignore the housework, eat junk food, and have Russ make me coffee.
Are you ready for this?
No, but that's OK. I don't have to be ready for everything. I can't be ready for everything. I'm a planner; this is the closest I've gotten to flying without a net.
Are you ready for this?
The closer it gets to the start of 12:01 AM Saturday, the less sure I am that I know what I'm doing or how I'm going to do it.
Why are you doing this?
The closer it gets to the start time, the less sure I am of why. But I am still sure that I want to do it.
One novel in three days.
I'm sure I will do it.
*With a deliberate Winnie-the-Pooh-like capital W.
