I had a great chat yesterday with dear friend Patti, who is no stranger to the creative arts. And I mentioned my struggles with wanting to write more, but it always falls to the bottom of the priority list. And how I will happily do all sorts of things about writing: do research, buy software, attend the creative writing social group at work (there’s a meeting tomorrow!), read the Stephen King book or the Anne Lamott book or the Elizabeth Gilbert book. Anything but actually write.

Yes, I know, this is writing, this here blog post. And when I’ve actually been published, it’s been this sort of thing – essays, not fiction. But I really want to at least try writing fiction. It’s hard! I’m not exactly bubbling with stories to tell, and just don’t have experience creating a plot, or interesting characters or relevant background. And when I start, I can so easily derail myself on issues like, ‘hey, this story is based on something that happens to me in the late 1980’s, so do I set it then, or do I put it in present day, which implies internet and cell phones and how does that change the story’? And off I go on a research task, when I know perfectly well that the best thing for me would be to just sit down and write that shitty first draft and then go back and fix it. How do I know that? Because I’ve read the Stephen King book and the Anne Lamott book and the Elizabeth Gilbert book, all of which are excellent. I’ve done the prep work.

EG points out that ‘I don’t have time’ is never a valid excuse. If you really want to do it, you’ll make the time. And I really want to do it (I think). But this is going to be another project like ice skating, where I know if I put in the work, it will be really rewarding, but right now, I’m starting from scratch and it’s time and effort to do the equivalent of playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ on the piano. But I need to put in that work on the basic skills to get to the good part.

So, do I have a plan? No, and I definitely do have time-boxed important stuff to work on right now which is not writing. But maybe I should make a plan and pick it up, say, in July, after the operas are done.

And writing here, however undrafted and self-indulgent it is, is at least keeping my fingers warm and maybe setting a routine and developing muscles I need.