Met a friend online yesterday who said she had nothing to write about. I never really had that problem, but for those who two, a creative writing class can be an eye opener. It pokes you in the eye and tells you how everything all around you is waiting to be written about. Everything in your head, in your dreams, in the people you know, and those you don’t know, in the very air you breathe, things are just waiting for you to write about them.
I have written about writer’s block before. I think I’m in the middle of one right now, but I do not believe in writer’s block anymore. So I’m going to power on, go with speed-writing and writing prompts, and just be not blocked. Presently I shall be in full flow, I’m certain.
Writing makes you tired, trying to write and never finding the time to do it makes you more tired still. Having to write, live, and work, when all you want to do is disappear in a book is about as much torture as you can fit in into a humdrum life.
een reading like a maniac the past few days, which means have got very little writing done, but went to a book sale last week (twice) and now have about 50 books I have yet to finish. (I have begun reading a few simultaneously.) Reading for me is like a fever, when I get into a book I’ve got to finish it.
I have been writing a fair bit these past few days, and somehow have not made it to my blogs. (Some of my writing exercises have made it to a local web-zine, which is good, specially because I like most of the other writing that has been published there so far).