I’m still scratching my head over this, but I’ve recently realized that the only place I’m doing any writing is in the front seat of the pickup while zipping down the road to a football game. Unfortunately, that’s not a daily event, which means neither is my writing.
For those of you following the saga of my (non) writing life, I’ve come to such a standstill about putting words on paper that I have felt embarressed and untruthful about calling myself a writer.
But then I began to notice something rather odd. It all started on the second day of the actual writing part of Book in a Week. Those of us taking the class were supposed to dive in with both feet and all ten fingers and write like the wind for one week. I did okay the first day. Nothing to write home about word count wise, but I was writing. That was Saturday. Then came Sunday. Go to church, eat lunch, hurry home and change clothes so we can head out on a sixty mile drive to watch our grandson play an intermural football game.
I decided I would take my laptop with me and try to write on the way to the game and on the way home. Honestly, I didn’t expect to get anything done, but strangely enough, I wrote. Quite a bit. For me. Still nothing to write home about on the word count, but I wrote.
And so it has gone. Sunday rolls around, I grab my laptop and jump in the pickup. It doesn’t seem to matter that darling hubby wants to talk as he drives. I just mutter uh-huh a lot and keep on tappity tapping away. I’ve even been writing while the grandson is playing. I know, I know. Grandma’s supposed to be watching every spine-tingling moment, but when everyone starts yelling and honking horns, I ask Grandpa and he fills me in on the latest greatest play. I know. Bad Grandma, but hey, how can I say no to the words oozing out the ends of my fingers. When you gotta write, you gotta write.
This past Sunday was no exception. I managed to pound out twelve hundred and some odd words, crafting a scene that I really didn’t know how would work, or even how it was supposed to play out. There’s one little bit near the end that pleases me immensely. Just hope I don’t wind up cutting the whole thing out later on.
What about you? Can you write on the fly? Or do you need peace and quiet and familiar surroundings to get the words to flow? What’s the weirdest, or maybe the most unusal, place you’ve ever had the urge to write? For me, I guess I’ll have to start bribing hubby to drive me around the block a couple hundred times in order to get anything done, but hey, that’s better than not writing at all!
Happy writing, everyone, no matter how you do it!