Why I Write: A Startling Revelation

After watching an episode of Hoarders, I found myself once again inspired to spend some time de-junking my home. The warm, stuffy musk of the garage beckoned me so I decided to begin there with boxes that have remained unopened since my last move.

Now, a smart person would not even peek in the boxes using the following logic: The boxes have been untouched for nearly two years, thus the materials within said boxes must not be important. Throw 'tall away and ask questions later.

Curiosity simply would not allow me to do this, and sort through the boxes I did. I'm ashamed to admit that one box was nothing but empty CD cases. However, one box was a treasure trove of stories I had written years and years ago. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, I began a series of tales called "Muffin Stories." They were about a lady named Sarcel who had a little bakery where she made the most disgusting muffins imaginable. As I browsed through some of my earliest attempts at writing, I was shaken by a revelation. My motives for writing have changed drastically since I was a kid, and not for the better.

When I wrote the "Muffin Stories," I wrote them purely for my own amusement. I enjoyed using the word "muffin" for some reason, and even more I enjoyed making up strange names like "Sarcel." If I said a word aloud and the sound made me snicker, it was going in a story. Coming up with onion-mustard-and-chocolate muffins and other awful combinations was also amusing to me.

I can't remember when I wrote something for myself alone. Lately, I have been writing not for me but for the validation I hope to receive from others. Now, part of me still does write "for me." I do have these stories and characters in my head I just have to let out, but now I constantly think "will grad schools like this? Will an intellectual like this? Will a potential suitor like this? Will writing this make others think I'm smart? Talented?" This is flawed thinking, and for one week I am conducting another experiment not unlike the TV fast. Which, by the way worked really well...for about two days. Oops.

This new experiment go as follows: For the next week, I will not strain myself with my writing stretching for literary greatness. I will not write for grad schools, professors, of that literary journal. I will write what amuses me, regardless if nothing wonderful comes of it. I just want to see what writing without inhibition feels like, if only for one week.

To Write or to Internet?

A friend of mine posted this on another forum: "Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet."

Of course, this writer friend of mine found the quote whilst surfing the internet. Which leads me to ponder the concept of distractions in general.

When I'm at home, the following distractions descend upon me like a swarm of zombie dwarves when I should be focused on writing: laundry, snack foods, tv, exercise, facebook, youtube, picking up the cereal that my nephew spilt this morning, birds chirping outside, email, ipod, itunes, pandora, scrutinizing my body in the mirror picking apart every flaw until I'm convinced I'm a monster that no man could possibly love, more snack foods, the sound of wind, my neighbor's dog, what's that on the floor - a spider or a ball of fuzz? ADD. Gotta love it. I must say though, the internet is a big one. Especially since I do all my writing via laptop. I'm beginning to see the wisdom of Mike the Tech who insists on doing all of his writing on a variety of vintage typewriters. What I once thought of as charmingly eccentric (and maybe a little foolish - after all, there is no "save" button on a typewriter!) I am now seeing as a brilliant way to filter out at least the internet portion of my list of distractions. Now what to do about the cellulite on my thighs?

Write or Watch TV? A Dilemma.

Stephen King wrote a book called On Writing. Or something like that. In that book, he spoke of the muse and they key to truly invoking this vehicle of inspiration. To loosely paraphrase (and boy, do I mean loosely!) he said something to the effect of - the muse does not simply appear, wave a wand and then harp music plays as an idea is born. Rather, he felt like the muse was constantly present, watching for one who is diligently struggling in creative pursuit. In other words, to a writer the muse would only bestow brilliance upon the poor sap who labours constantly at their notebook, keyboard, or typewriter. Only when the writer has proved such dedication as to continue writing even when displeased with his or her work, does the muse take pity, sweep down with gilded chariot and intervene.

Oh dear Muse, you are a clever one. By behaving this way, you ensure that those capitalizing on your stimulation are truly deserving. I must remember the way you operate when there is a Dr. Who marathon on TV, Sex and the City is now in syndication on E (which means a nice Mormon girl can watch and not be assaulted by BEWBS and effwords!), and the series premier of Walking Dead is rapidly approaching. So thus begins a new writing technique I will employ: The TV fast. Anytime I feel like flipping on the ol' flatscreen I will think - wait. If my senses are being occupied by the tellie, will the muse be able to reach me? Will I hear the gentle knocking of the characters in my unwritten stories? The answer will always be nay. Which leads me to another point. Time spent thinking about writing, is not time spent writing. (I stole this from a Nike ad about running)

So. One week. No TV. I'm serious. Muse? Are you there? It's me Suzy. It's safe to come out now. The TV is off...starting tomorrow. After all, tonight is The Wire night. *Sigh*