You Can't Fool Me

I hear writers talk about the joy of writing and I think I’ve landed on another planet.

Joy? What joy? There’s supposed to be joy?

Tonight, I plunked myself down in front of the computer determined to pound out three pages. Three measly pages. Is that so much to ask for? I know of authors whose clickety-clack fingers bang out upwards of TEN pages a day. Tales of those bitches make me feel like such a slacker.

Anyway, one of my on-line writing loops is having a February Writing Challenge. Each day, we post our total pages to a database. So, I ask you, why do we writers need this kick-in-the-butt if there’s so much fricking JOY in writing???

Okay, so I achieved my goal tonight (I’m already behind with two fat goose eggs for days one and two). But, let me assure you, the ordeal was pure agony.

Five more minutes, I told myself. Something will come. (Something finally did.) Five more minutes, I promised myself again, no Seinfeld until you’ve added three more pages of incomparably brilliant dialogue and scathing wit. (Yeah, right.)

It took me until a quarter to Seinfeld to write two pages. Enough, I thought. It’s two more pages than you had before you sat down. I eyed the little numbers ticking away in the bottom right corner of the monitor. Still time to add more.

I did it.

Squeezed out one more page.

Debra Dixon is right. (Paraphrasing here) It’s a whole lot more fun to have written than to write.

And, oh crap. Now, I’m missing Seinfeld with this darn blogging.