The urge to write can overcome anything. I’ve been ill enough to put that to the test and it’s official: If I can hardly walk, talk or think, I still pull up a chair and try to write.
The urge to write can overcome anything. I’ve been ill enough to put that to the test and it’s official: If I can hardly walk, talk or think, I still pull up a chair and try to write.
“Come on, Marie.” I dragged her from the chair. Twelve stone, my arse. Always dieting, she was; always complaining and drinking her gin, now slumped in the garden with a wet mouth and puffy eyes. I resumed my grip beneath her arms, supporting her weight. “That’s marriage,” I supposed. Later, I breathed in the silence. …
This is the last day of CampNaNoWriMo which challenges writers to complete 50,000 words of a novel during the month of July. I don’t like the whole ‘winner’ moniker, but mission duly accomplished.
With five days remaining, I have topped 40,000 words. The month’s progress as evidenced by the helpful little chart is more erratic than I would have hoped, but certainly more focused than I had expected.
I am battling an addiction. Like any potent drug, it’s become an indelible part of me. Test my bones and you will find traces there. I was exposed to this compulsion in early childhood and I still remember how it harnessed the passion of my teenage years. In the decades since, I’ve often broken the …
I’d hoped to hit 20,000, but 17,000 will do for now. What is more important is that my rambling prose is finally piecing together the fractured hero of my novel. I can hear him now.
I have passed 10,000 words. This feels like a significant marker, although I know it’s just as arbitrary as any number. Perhaps it’s the presence of the extra zero that adds a certain weight to my efforts. Or perhaps it’s the fact that I can see it in terms of 20%. What’s the significance of …
Write when you don’t know from what dried up source it might come. Write when the screen is blank and forbidding. Write when the words simply halt and falter. Write when the keys feel unfamiliar. Just write.
I’m diving in. 50,000 words of a novel during the month of July. Who’s with me?
Recognition patters in my head like the wings of a moth. I do not want to grasp it because this hidden knowledge has power. The crouched figure is holding something in the water. I must stop it. From Lost Summer by SJG. The editing process can seem endless. Copyright © 2019 theRuncibility.com, all …
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