“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself…It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.” ~ Harper Lee
“Why did I write? Because I found life unsatisfactory.” ~ Tennessee Williams
“Go for broke. Always try and do too much. Dispense with safety nets. Take a deep breath before you begin talking. Aim for the stars. Keep grinning. Be bloody-minded. Argue with the world. And never forget that writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things–childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves–that go on slipping , like sand, through our fingers.” ~ Salman Rushdie
Without going into details I will simply say that I had a nice post going just a few minutes ago and I lost it. No record of a saved draft in my blog’s admin logs. I got very angry, and now I don’t feel much like writing at all. I’m gonna go with that feeling. There are days when I berate myself for feeling I must write a blog post every friggin day. I do it because I like to, and that entails multiple reasons for the liking. And it gives, brings, whatever, a sweet feeling. I don’t know what made me a writer. I seem to have been born with it; must have been about nine years old when I first began putting stuff down on paper. Yeh, it feels good to resume work on the novel, although the effort there still stirs up my inner critic, my conscience, what ever ya wanna call it. But a slow start is still a start, and feeling guilty about the slowness does no worldly good. It is gonna be great fun to write the novel, if the beginnings are any indication. Even if few people ever read it. It’s just fun. That’s all.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.