The other day I was talking to a friend about writing. As he told me he’d just finished 200,000 words, my chin hit the ground. I haven’t even reached 20,000 yet, I lamented. Do you have a routine? he asked. I had one when I wrote 10,000 words in a month but since then my routine has pretty much gone down the toilet, I muttered. And the self-loathing began? he looked at me and nodded.
Yup. The self-loathing began.
It’s a vicious cycle. You don’t write, you loath. You loath, you don’t write…at all…ever. Okay, well, maybe a little. The problem now is that it’s gotten so disjointed because I’m away from the story line for so long between bouts of writing. However, writing a little has got to be better than not writing at all. My friend says, just 100 words. That’s enough to keep the loathing away.
Good. I’ll give it a go.
Last evening was a glorious one. I went for a walk in the park and watched as everything was dazzling in the golden hue of the late-day sun. It was warm but not hot with a mild breeze. Children were playing, dogs were running and barking, couples were walking hand in hand. If I could capture those 20 minutes in a bottle and save it for a dull day, I would have in an instant.
A woman sat on the park lawn on a small blanket. She was facing out toward the water and clearly soaking up the beautiful atmosphere. She looked so at peace. Beside her, lying on the blanket, was an open novel and in her lap she held a notebook in which she was writing. It could have been a diary, but it made me think of my own writing notebook that I carry with me often in hopes of having a moment of inspiration.
Suddenly, I saw myself as this woman and knew that I had to get back to writing. There’s no room for self-loathing, as is evident in this picture, only contentment, creativity, and peace…And writing.