Today is for writing. Writing cannot be done without a routine being established. Write every day for one hour. Write what is true to you, what you feel. So what if you have never been shot in the head? Don't you remember the desparation of a general anasthetic creeping through your body, or the horror of realising your first tooth had gotten wobbly? 'man, I'm falling apart. My teeth will fall out! My skeleton will rot! I'll die'.
See? Easy as...
see cliche
Jack London said "You don't wait for inspiration, you go after it with a club." How right he is. Somebody else said, and many have quoted, that the loneliest person in the world is a writer in front of a blank sheet of paper. Inspiration is the single hardest thing in the world to get. I think that writers are so often procrastinators because of the terrible fear of that blank fucking paper. It's so beautiful, that paper. The white is so white, the cream and snow and wind and spirits and white oh white. It is crying out for a beautiful poem, a story, anything... but who can bring themselves to sully the beauty of the whiteness? For that white is purity, and when your smutty blue pen carves it's vile graffiti on the white, the magic white magic will be destroyed.
It's just a piece of paper, dammit, get another one and start again. Now, for sixty seconds, as many words as you can about tree
about chair
about me
about real
about
about
about
I write as straight as I can,
H. G. Wells is talking to me from the quotation dictionary in my mind. Fuck off!
just as I walk as straight as I can,
not that I love his writing or anything, but who's going to turn down good advice?
because that is the best way to get there.
But what is that for me? It is to be one with the language. Feel and be the words. Love the words. I am the words.
Er... now about this blank page. I have to, er, go and write on it. Now. You know...that routine and...stuff.