The main thing is to write. Yes, read, a lot, all the time, anything you can get your hands on. Yes, live, gain some experience, do something meaningful.
But, on top of it all, write.
Today: typing up my handwritten story. Printer: running low on ink. Will need to mooch.
Fifteen pages of story typed.
God, let this consume me. Let it consume my life. I think that’s a personal requirement if I’m going to get this anywhere decent (Damn you, finals! Quit taking up my time!).
Writers aren’t born, they’re made—from practice, reading, and a lot of caffeine. And sometimes tutelage. Novelist ALEXANDER CHEE recounts studying with Annie Dillard, learning lessons from a master.
I finished typing and printing tons of chapters yesterday, which I’d been working on for the past 2 days (Monday doesn’t count - things were so hectic, I only got time to do some longhand).
It’s coming together! I think that has to be one of the more exciting things about being a writer - watching all the pieces of your work come together that were previously so far apart.
Also, I have to work on the Fantasy Big Bang for LJ, since I only have about 50 words for that so far (don’t hurt me!). 8K is not a lot, and I have a little more than 3 months to do it, but it’s one of those things that I’d have to make a committment to. Let me now direct your attention to 6 Tricks for Writing When You Don’t Feel Like It!
I love writer blogs.
And now for your near-daily dose of Goblin Market:
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.”
“Nay hush,” said Laura.
“Nay hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more,” and kissed her.
“Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons, icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.”
In my own words.: Literally, each one of these blogs is interesting.
They helped me qualify for my scholarship by reblogging my photograph about spreading awareness regarding third world illiteracy (see previous posts) and as promised, I checked out their blogs. You should too!