My Sunday without internet lent itself to a great deal of thinking.
This must be what it feels like to quit smoking. Only I don’t feel like garbage.
I sure do a lot of cleaning when I don’t have a single thing else to do.
Eulogy is a downright weird movie.
Well, if I can’t sit around and watch Mad Men on my laptop, I can thrust it upon my smaller sister, getting her addicted, and I can sit down and watch for a minute while I read! I’m sooooo smart.
Sally’s Salon! Where have you been all my life??!?!
I don’t even need the internet to know that everyone on Facebook and Twitter are probably freaking the eff out about the snow outside.
Wow, I read a whole book today! And watched that weird movie, True Life: I’m Giving My Baby Up For Adoption, cleaned my room, made homemade biscuits and a flipping omelet for breakfast, went to the gym…. I’m a rockstar!
And I thought about writing. I thought about how fun it is. And how much I miss having a project on the backburner of my brain.
You know. Something else fun to think about when I’m not blocking out my brain waves with the internet.
Feeling like less and less of an expert as the days pass, I don’t feel like I can really wax poetic about the Novelling Life any longer. When I sat down to write last night, I could feel my lack of practice. Like getting on a bike after ten years. Or trying to run a mile when you’ve barely lifted your butt from the seat for months. Speaking of, guess who ran five consecutive minutes on the treadmill yesterday? THIS GIRL!
Anyway… just like I expected, the blank Word doc last night was scary. I couldn’t think of a damned thing to write about. What DO people write stories about? And why don’t I have any ideas? A lot of writers I know say they have more ideas for stories than hours in the day. I know what that feeling is, I’ve had it before, the bursting creativity, but to me it’s just a Feeling, not a Way of Life. Out of practice, my mind grinds to a halt when I ask it to just focus, focus for an hour… thirty minutes… heck, FIVE minutes and try to think of something that people might like to read.
I wrote something, a few paragraph about a girl who is a chronic loser of best friends. It’s stupid. It’s derivative of everything I’ve ever written, which is a bad thing to be derivative of.
Why don’t I just write something I’ve already written.
So, just like I imagined the day before, I was sitting in my new chair, mellow music, a juice-glass half full of cabernet Oh, red wine, how I love that kick in the ass with every sip, writing. Revisiting my most recently completed novel, characters, four sisters I am familiar with, and without ever once referring to their original word document, I rewrote what I could remember, figuring if I couldn’t remember it it wasn’t that important, and I was fiddling with third person again, wondering if it’s something that would add to my story, or detract, but trying it anyway. A few paragraphs, which is nothing, I know, but that’s the nice thing about a fresh start – every small effort feels like I’ve scaled a mountain.
I wrote until I got too sleepy
and when I woke up, I even thought about squeezing in a few minutes before work
Because it might be fun!