I know many writers who are adamant about creating and maintaining a writing schedule. I do so admire their diligence. However, I am easily bored ... and I'm not a big fan of staring at the blank page, awaiting inspiration.
In truth, although I've recently cleared the decks in order to write, my time is still up for grabs. I am at the whim of whatever suddenly needs attending to. If nothing needs attending to ... well, something always needs attending to.
Besides, my muse is remarkably elusive when hunted, so unless I have some pressing need to write a letter, or some such, I generally wait until inspiration finds me, and then all else gets pushed to the far wall, more or less.
Often, my muse's timing presents me with some awkward situations, during which I can't very well say to someone, "Shut up! I have to write this down!" or when there's nowhere to pull the car over to make a note, or at three A.M.
As I have mentioned before, it is my hope that the ether, that vast repository wherein the unaccommodated flotsam and jetsam of shipwrecked ideas float in limbo, might actually yield some of that treasure back to me one day.
But, whether it does or not, there is no clock on Earth that can compel me to sit and wait for it, or for newer stock to show up. I have sincerely tried this a time or two, and always I have epically failed at it.
So, my more organized fellow writers ... the kin with whom I share that mapless ether ... you who adhere to you clocks, your schemes, and your charted time ... I must confess, with all due respect, that it's just not my gig.
In truth, although I've recently cleared the decks in order to write, my time is still up for grabs. I am at the whim of whatever suddenly needs attending to. If nothing needs attending to ... well, something always needs attending to.
Besides, my muse is remarkably elusive when hunted, so unless I have some pressing need to write a letter, or some such, I generally wait until inspiration finds me, and then all else gets pushed to the far wall, more or less.
Often, my muse's timing presents me with some awkward situations, during which I can't very well say to someone, "Shut up! I have to write this down!" or when there's nowhere to pull the car over to make a note, or at three A.M.
As I have mentioned before, it is my hope that the ether, that vast repository wherein the unaccommodated flotsam and jetsam of shipwrecked ideas float in limbo, might actually yield some of that treasure back to me one day.
But, whether it does or not, there is no clock on Earth that can compel me to sit and wait for it, or for newer stock to show up. I have sincerely tried this a time or two, and always I have epically failed at it.
So, my more organized fellow writers ... the kin with whom I share that mapless ether ... you who adhere to you clocks, your schemes, and your charted time ... I must confess, with all due respect, that it's just not my gig.
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