I wrote 525 words tonight. It was a bit of a way to decompress after a rough day (okay, a few rough days). They weren’t great words. They weren’t even good words. In fact, they’ll probably end up as throw-away words.
But, they were words.
Writing is about the process and the showing up.
Writing is about letting yourself write not-so-good words or stories so that you can clear out the clutter of words and stuff (like bad days and navigating Asperger’s and related meltdowns with your seven year old) and junk (like that internal voice that says, “You can’t do this” and then points you to the unfinished To Do list you started three days ago) and fear to get to the better words, ideas and stories.
Writing is about writing out words that sometimes make you cringe even as you type them. But you write anyway because you’re searching for ideas even when you know that an idea is still eluding you. But you know it’s not too far and you have to write your way there to find it; bad words and all.
Writing is about not quitting when you have to work for that next word, that next story, that next idea.
Heck, let me just say it: writing is hard. Sometimes it even sucks, like when you’re lured to the keyboard believing that something awesome is about to happen and then it’s nothing more than a series of clunks. Loud, obnoxious clunks.
Writing happens on the mountaintop and it happens in the valley. It happens early and late. It happens in the in-between and it happens in the midst of parenting and Asperger’s and life.
Writing is what you do because you are a writer. It’s okay. Say it again, if you have to: I am a writer even when my words aren’t the sparkling prose the muse promised to provide.
Keep writing, friends.
Keep writing and find that story you’ve been writing to find.