I attended my poetry workshop today (we meet once a month and have a quick-write session, peruse a chosen piece or two and then get down to workshopping our own pieces). The instructor/facilitator/moderator/whatever also took the time today to ask us today how we were “doing”.
Presumably in terms of writing poetry.
I said: not bad. It’s spring. I always seem to slow down in spring. It’s a spring thing.
(apparently, I also channel Dr. Seuss… )
Anyway, a few of the others commented on how, even if they are not producing what they consider to be poems or prose, they write something EVERY DAY. Every-freaking-day. Who has time for that?? If I had time to write every day, how could I possibly justify the nasty state my house is in? Or the fact that 3/4 of my clothes are in the laundry basket? Or that I haven’t properly practiced my choir songs in months?
I try to write on my lunch breaks. I generally don’t take my breaks at the same time as everyone else, and so often have a chance to scribble something. But I don’t always feel like it. And simply regurgitating “I don’t feel like writing right now” seems, well, kind of silly.
Sometimes a forced write is good, provided that there is a good idea to spring from. It’s actually worked for me, though I had truly thought my poor little brain didn’t work that way. More often, though, a forced write is just a exhausting whine – draining and unproductive. It may be that the complaining needs to get out of the way before the “real” writing can begin but, damn, does it look bad.
So, I’m counting this blog entry as my writing for tomorrow. I already wrote today’s write earlier at the workshop. Maybe that’ll free up some time for laundry tomorrow evening. After Sex and the City, that is.