a novel by JOHN GRABOWSKI

Bursts

starburstsI work in bursts. I really just realized that.  Today I set there for six hours and barely wrote a few paragraphs.  Then at five o’clock (as usual, of course!) I exploded and really got to the core of what I wanted to say.  Then I wrote five pages in ten minutes.  And kept four of them, which for me is something of a record.

It almost hurts sometimes.  And it’s not the most productive way to write either, but I think this is probably the way most writers–those who don’t just put a bag on their head and do it for the paycheck, write.  The muse is temperamental and fickle.  Often I arrive to the party with her under my arm, but she leaves me to go off and be with someone else, someone invariably more handsome and thinner.  Wish I could do something about it. But some days it takes me a long time to get warmed up to the point that what I’m writing is worth any squat. It’s not just a matter of putting words down. The words have to ring true.

Ringing true. The hardest thing…

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