A few sips of
coffee in the a.m. and writing.
Geez, does
anyone make any caffeinated sense at that hour? I know it took me two minutes
to type these few lines. My radius, ulna, and phalanges will feel boneless
until halfway through my second cup. (And don’t be impressed that I knew the
proper names for the innards of my arm and fingers; I picked those up from
episodes of BONES)
I’m probably the
worst writer in the morning, though other writers have told me that those
brain-dead moments in the morning can be the most productive; your brain’s not
exactly sieve-like, and you never know what you’ll come up with unless you just
do it.
Personally, the
only thing that comes to mind is Hemingway’s quote, “Write drunk, edit
sober.”
But even with the brunch hour fog I’m
attempting to keyboard through, I’ve always kept in mind the collective advice
of my writing class professors; just write. Write and write and write…and edit
later.
So I write. Whether
or not it makes any sense. I don’t just want to do it. I need to
do it.
In 'Letters to a Young Poet,' Rainer Maria
Rilke had been asked advice by a novice writer. Rilke wrote back the young bard
that, though he was flattered, his advice would be futile:
“There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself.
Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its
roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would
have to die if you were forbidden to write.”
Um…well, unlike
a journalist who covers a Middle Eastern uprising fraught with peril, I’ve
never felt the need to risk my life for my writing—short of writing a
memoir.
I’ve been
fortunate in that I’ve lived in a country where I can write any old thing I
like and publish it within a blog without threat of Infidelism. (And being the
Gemini writer that I am, I took a moment to verify that was even a word. I’ve
looked up eight websites, and so far, they can only tell me how many syllables
are used)
There are days
where I do need a good prompt. The ‘dictionary-flip-word-prompt’ I practice is
when I’m especially grasping to write but have no clue what to write. Other times I fall back on writing or editing my
woefully unfinished manuscripts. Does that make me the ‘tortured artist’? No
idea, really. But it’s fun to be thought of as an ‘eccentric writer’.
I think even the
word ‘eccentric’ is widely known as allowing any number of idiosyncrasies some
of us just can’t help. My colleagues have had a chuckle or a head-shake over
mine:
* Consuming only cold-n-crisp veggies, as
I find steamed to be nauseating.
* Liking the color purple but refusing to wear it.
* Clipping Sunday newspaper coupons for things I’m so sure
I’ll buy, but never do.
* Rum-n-Coke? Try Rum-n-Dr. Pepper.
* Only being able to sleep for five hours at a time.
* Typing, and printing my Last Will &
Statements, three hours before going into surgery.
* Reading the first one-hundred pages of a great book, but
putting it down, close by, and not managing to finish it.
* Keeping four flash-drives that all hold the same
information, because I’m paranoid about loss, destruction, or
accidentally-deleted files…what writer doesn’t dread that?
Personally, I
think our eccentricities keep us interesting beings. Artists, musicians,
photographers, writers…we’re all adventure-seekers in our own oddball
way. Typing my way through a rainy Oregon morning, consuming my second cup
of coffee…is that eccentric? Is it eccentric to have completely changed the
theme of this post halfway through?
I’m not sure,
but maybe I should reverse Hemingway’s advice: write sober, edit drunk.
