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Just keep swimming. Just keep writing. Goodnight, everyone! :)
Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.
— Louis L'Amour
It's been a while, but hello! :)
“I wanted to be a writer, so I became one. How? I wrote things down.”
— Ariel Gore
Just keep swimming? Or just keep writing? ;) It's Sunday, and I don't normally work weekends if I can help it, but I fell a little behind over the week... so here I am. It's okay though. I didn't have anything else planned for the weekend, other than running an errand yesterday, so I'm fine with working today. I'm kind of swamped with work. Here's what's on my plate: - Finishing up a 4,000-word order on a kitchen appliance. I have already written over 2,000 words, so I have no doubt I'll finish it tonight. It's due on Tuesday, but I would rather submit it before the weekend ends. - Completing a 700-word order on home decor/furniture. I've been receiving work from this client at least once or twice a week for several weeks now, so I found my groove with writing it. It's due by 3am (tonight into tomorrow), but I know I'll get it done on time. And that's what's on the agenda today. If you're writing anything this weekend, I hope the gears are turning well! As for me, I need to stop procrastinating and get my work done. :)
If you're a writer you're supposed to write a lot of bullshit. It's part of the gig. You have to write a lot of absolute garbage in order to get to the good bits. Every once in a while you'll be like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time writing bullshit," but that's dumb. That's exactly the same as an Olympic runner being like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time running all those practice laps"
When I was a child, every well-meaning adult with a nine-to-five soul and a dried-up imagination told me that being a writer wasn’t a “real job.”
“You’re just a little girl with big words,” they said. “Books don’t pay the bills.”
As if paying bills was the most thrilling thing a person could live for.
I never understood why grown-ups were so committed to shoving a fire extinguisher down the throat of a kid who just wanted to tell stories.
I kept wondering, why is it so threatening for a little girl to believe her words could matter?
Now I know why.
Because they never had a dream of their own.
And when you’ve never had one or gave yours up a long time ago, it’s easier to mock someone else’s.
It’s easier to roll your eyes at someone chasing stars when you’ve chosen to stay face-down in the dirt.
And still… I write. Not because I was told I couldn’t. But because I had to.
Because I promised that little girl I’d keep going, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.