Crossposted to the Deadline Dames
Friday again, and I got nothin’. My brain is broken, mostly because I’m in the last stretch of Dru 4, now provisionally titled Defiance. This is the point at which I actively resent pretty much anything that tears me away from writing–exercising, eating, loo breaks, bathing, anything. If not for the kids I would probably try to pull an epiphyte and live on air. Fortunately, feeding them is non-negotiable, and it makes me remember to eat. And occasionally bathe myself. *makes face*
Sometimes I think the fierce end-of-book concentration is the “jolt” that keeps me coming back to writing. Sometimes I think it’s starting a new book and having the New Shiny to play with. Sometimes I think it’s the slog in the middle, where the only thing that keeps me going is the craftsman’s pleasure of building sentences and fitting them together. Sometimes it’s rereading a scene and feeling that heart-in-mouth reaction, where I’ve swung for the fences and I know as soon as I hear the crack! that I’m not stopping until home plate.
Did I just bust out a sports metaphor there?
Anyway. Each part of writing is good, for me. Even proof pages and copyedits are good. Even getting the revision letters that make me scream like a little girl in a horror movie are good. They’re good because I’m doing the thing I really feel I was meant and made for. I’m making a living at the one thing that makes me unreasonably happy; my work is also my joy.
It took a lot of hard work to get here. A lot of rejection–and it takes a lot of rejection on a daily basis. On the other hand, I’m making a living. I don’t ever complain or kick too hard. In fact, most days I wake up and think about the day’s wordcount goal and deadlines looming and I think, How in the hell did I get this lucky?
Recently writing has sustained me through a broken heart and huge, stressful Life Changes. Writing has been my solace, my guide, my distraction, my security blanket, and my escape. If you’re lucky to have that one thing you love, it can be your boat through Hell.
Your thing, that thing you love, might not be writing. You’re the only person who has a chance of finding out what it is. Here’s what I want to say this bright, beautiful, raining Friday from the chair where I pull words out of the air and string them together:
Don’t stop. Even if it’s just five minutes a day, or just ten, do that thing you love. It’s cheaper than therapy and more fulfilling than junk food. It can save you from ulcers and restore your faith in whatever needs restoring. It can carry you through the shocks flesh is heir to and celebrate the good things that come along. Do it because it needs doing, and nobody can do it quite like you. There’s a reason it makes you feel That Good–because your way of doing it is unique, and the world needs it.
Do it because you’ve go to. Do it because you feel like you’ll burst or slowly die inside if you don’t. Do it because it feels great, do it because the world needs another chuckle or two, do it because it siphons off all the crazy that would otherwise come out at 3AM in the Circle K parking lot. Just take a couple minutes and do.
After all, our time here is so short. Way too short to not indulge a few minutes a day in the thing that makes us so unreasonably happy, the thing only we can do the way that we do. Let me encourage you, dear Reader. If you need permission, encouragement, absolution, or dispensation to spend a few minutes doing it today, consider that you have it.
After all, it’s what I plan to do today. One could very easily do worse.