Writing frustrated.

Oh, friends.

First, I must report that my assigned writing is going fine; well, even, for so early on! I remain happily capable of being told precisely what to do and how to do it. But only of that.

Lately, creative writing feels wrong, joyless, absent.

In every place I look, the given advice troubles me.

Exact methods differ, but always the part that strikes me unfair the same: Schedule creation. Daily word count. Repetition. Habit.

I’m about to get bratty. But I see no way around it. We’ll call it honesty instead.

I need romance first. At least for long enough that I know how to keep the fire warm, embers glowing after the flame dies. Then, I want to write a precise four hours every morning toward a goal that excites me.  I want nothing more than a morning writer’s routine; coffee, a long walk, 1000 words. Repeat.

I have felt the fever of good writing ideas, the words to see them through, and flashes of inspiration so intense that the best things I’ve written I have no recollection of writing, and then this — thoughts stripped to nothing, so I can only complain in desperation.  Not a sparkle, no glimpse. And I’m left with this feeling heavy, this pregnancy of unthought, this burden to express the unexpressed, to bear beauty, to participate in the redemption of ugliness and darkness.

It was a pile of diamonds spent gladly and glibly — and I hid the last jewel in a fifty-pound flour sack, carried it across miles and mountains, and have discovered it missing. How long can one keep up sorting through grain hoping to see, once again, the old sparkle?

It seems too easy to chalk this perspective up to laziness, unwillingness to put in time.

My time is spent, yet still I cannot measure it with words.

Please, offer me one of three things:

1) An idea.
2) A prayer.
3) A swift kick.

  • Karen

    Well, it seems to me that this post itself is prose. I wanted to describe it as prosaic, but in my self doubt, I had to look up the word. Here is irony for you! I would choose meaning #2:

    1. commonplace or dull; matter-of-fact or unimaginative: a prosaic mind.
    2. of or having the character or form of prose rather than poetry.

    How can a word meaning ‘to have the character of prose’ be commonplace or unimaginative???
    Well, just so you know, your Papa and I specifically prayed for your creativity to flow just yesterday morning. God is faithful. You are remarkable.