On Fifteen Years of Barely Writing

Years and years ago I graduated with a degree in Creative Writing. And I never did much with it. Or anything, really. This blog and some other random scribblings elsewhere. I’ve started a bunch of novels, which never really went anywhere. But I’ve had this idea that I can’t let go of, and for the last few months, I’ve been giving it 30 minutes here and there, usually when I’m on the bus, or up super-late at night for work stuff, or whatever. This last weekend, while recovering from a vasectomy, I was going to try to get past the hump and hopefully the words would really start to flow. And I can’t decide if that’s just the nature of how I write now, if I’ve lost my passion for writing, or if I’m just in too much pain and too annoyed to write anything at the feverish rate I used to. But I only write when the mood strikes, which has been about weekly.

I still want to write. I’m just not passionate about it anymore. Not like I used to be. And I don’t worry about that — passion misapplied too early to a pursuit burns out. I was too passionate about framebuilding too early in the process and let my enthusiasm get the best of me. This may have been what happened with writing, too. Enthusiasm and passion, early, can get too much in the way of craftsmanship.

So now, I’m going to be a workhorse. Thirty minutes a day. Build up the muscles, build up the mindset, then build up the love for it.

It’s time to get back down to business.

Thirty minutes a day. Genre fiction. Doesn’t have to be good, don’t even have to save the files. Just need to get moving again. Good thing I have a long bus ride to work, right?

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