You gotta start somewhere

When I got sick this summer and found myself with loads of unoccupied time in which I could do very little physical activity, I realized it was the perfect opportunity to rededicate myself to writing. I’ve been struggling with it for years for a number of reasons, and one of the biggest reasons was time. Now I had time. So much time. There was no work for me to bury myself in and there were no more excuses. I started with morning pages, and took to them immediately. They helped me get through the days and weeks that stretched into months while I waited for surgery and then recovered from surgery. I discovered things about my writing and myself, revelations I had never had before, and now that I’m back at work, morning pages have suffered. I hate it and want to get back to it. Weekend morning pages aren’t sufficient. My problem is that I’m a slow writer, so to get the three handwritten pages in, I need about 30 minutes of time. That means I’d have to wake up half an hour early every morning and right now, that’s a challenge. Because I wake up at 5:30am already and waking up early is NOT something that comes easily to me. I love my early shift and everything but getting out of bed is like, my least favorite activity in the world.

But this blog post isn’t about my morning pages, it’s about what I’m writing now, and what I’m writing now, aside from this fantastic post, is fanfic. My favorite kind of fanfic. (I will not tell you what kind that is because omg, I do have some dignity left.) Sometimes, as I’m sitting at my laptop plunking away at the story, word by word, I feel guilty. I’m writing fanfic. I’m not writing something REAL and DEEP and MEANT TO CHANGE LIVES. But then I remember that all writing is practice. I’m practicing right now. Riding the bicycle around on the driveway before venturing out onto the sidewalk. I want to make sure I trust myself without training wheels. It doesn’t matter if my practice is disjointed and bizarre and dude, fanfic. It matters that my fingers are moving and my brain is working. The words are sliding into place alongside one another, little clusters of letters on the ark of my creativity. /flowery

It’s early when he wakes up, the room is dim and gray and cold. He feels Brandy’s absence before he confirms it but there’s a note on her pillow, brief but friendly – Double shift, home at 7. Stay, don’t stay. Takeout menus by the fridge. He drops the note back onto the pillow and rolls onto his back. He listens to the city wake up around him, the car horns and shouted conversations, buses pulling away from curbs, children shrieking on school playgrounds. Life is normal outside, on the sidewalks below Brandy’s apartment.


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