Writing Kind
I AM A WRITER
My college composition professor had us write on the top of the page on the first day of class. We had to write for 10 minutes from that prompt. The resulting essays were pretty shitty, but uplifting and empowering. I already knew that my dream was to be a writer. Seeing my name on a published book was the greatest accomplishment I could imagine.
I have achieved that goal.
Yes, I still have to work a day job to make that happen. Yes, I am still trying to find an agent. Yes, I still find myself in grammatical nightmare scenarios in which I can’t remember when to use a semicolon.
But, I HAVE ACHIEVED THAT GOAL.
I am hard on myself. Productivity has always been my mark for success. My first NaNoWriMo gave me the golden number of 1667 words per day as the mark of a successful project. Before that it took me 2 years to write my first book. Its 100,000 words were written on sticky notes, partially filled spiral notebooks, and the back of worksheets. Transcribing it was Hell. Editing it was worse.
Hundred Book Summer was completed during the November 2015 NaNoWriMo. Success? No. Forcing myself to write words whether I had inspiration or not left me with a book (several in fact) that even after countless revisions I’m not happy with. I have continued using this method for years.
This time is different. I’m trying something new with 2Moons, 1River. I’m saying screw productivity. My rule is that I have to write at least one word a day. That may seem like nothing, but it has opened up room in me to write again; to enjoy writing again. I am letting the character in this book drive the story.
No more stomach in knots as I look at the blinking cursor judging my lack of productivity.
I AM NOT A WRITER
That is what my comp teacher gave us on the last day of class as a writing prompt. The resulting essays were a little darker than on the first day of class, but mine was a little more hopeful. Most of the students in that class didn’t want to be writers. They were just filling their minimum English requirement, but I dream was to be a writer.
I don’t remember the entirety of my essay, but I do remember the line: I am not a writer. I am a creator of worlds, of lives, of empathy and ire.
This book is different, because I’m being kind to myself and kind to my story by letting them both develop with love.
Not the characters though. You know I’m gonna run them bitches through the ringer.
