On Writing

The story has to come from somewhere.

In the meantime, often the writer feels lost, searching in vast expanses for something entirely intangible, feeling that it will come, but hardly knowing from where or when.

This, quite possibly, is why many great writers turn to journalism. The story presents itself, organically as the world turns in front of them. They must wallow in trenches and hike daunting distances, mind ready to pounce at the hint of any detail worth collecting. Their journey is difficult, certainly, but differs from the quest of a novelist. The novelist requires patience of another suit.

Patience is a tricky thing. And sometimes, it is best to forget about. But other times, a writer must cling to it like the life raft with a slow leak in the middle of the Atlantic that it most assuredly is. Hopefully, in time, a story will pass by, pick them up, and whisk them off to Productivity. If not, then they will drown...and with any luck, that will be an even more interesting bit of inspiration than they had hoped for to begin with.

I am clinging to my raft right now. It is yellow (a color I despise, as it is bad with my complexion, and reminds me of agitation and uncomfortable hunger for things other than what currently are), and although it seems sturdy enough, I know that the sharks of my own mind are circling nearby, waiting for a storm.

This is a good thing, I think - as long as the storm makes it onto the page.



Also, on an unrelated note, I made this in Michigan this weekend. My back is now completely charred as a result. Camping is always a good distraction. :)