I was just going to say that remaining in the creative zone is not my challenge. It’s finding the time for human relationships with those I love that I can’t seem to perfect.
And MSB, I don’t think we’re meant to perfect human relationships. They’re meant to move and kick and scream. It’s that threshing around that makes them bigger, gives them substance, folds the edges of feelings through lives
He should be jealous. What can compare to a book trailing from the end of your fingers, making its way into the world, a part of you made real for all the world to see…
I need to unclench just enough to write a “dreadful dumb book.” Then everything will be okay. I must unclench just enough to allow myself to be brilliant, even if I’m the only one who thinks so. But I clench and clench. What am I holding onto? In the dark, alone, when there’s no one watching, and no one waiting to snatch what my clawed fingers encircle, (except God, and he sure as hell doesn’t want it), I open my first to have a look at my Precious, but my sweaty palm is empty.
You must, MUST, give yourself permission to be awful. This is the most fundamental thing I have learned as a writer. For me, writing with cheap materials in sloppy penmanship with misspelled words and rampant cliches is the mainline to whatever crude material exists and can be refined. You have to let go, be humble, assume you are awful (not a stretch in my case) and write anyway. You MUST get it down on the page, Tulasi-Priya, and push through whatever is keeping you inert.
We only live once. Don’t keel over with your fists clenched.
you’ll write your “dreadful dumb book.”
And just then, when you looked, it was there and you just didn’t see it.
The book isn’t Something Else, a something you hoped to see in your palm. Your book lies there, in the sweat, ready to fly from your fingers, and all through your space, only some of it needs find the page… and when it does, there you’ll find it… your book.
As dreadful and dumb and glorious and beautiful as you are yourself.
Your book, your books… they’re just pieces of you, in the sweat on the page, and you’d no more want to hold them inside you than a child that’s due to be born.
harryipants 
Writing is just like being in love. Crazy infatuated juicy love. No wonder my husband is jealous.
I was just going to say that remaining in the creative zone is not my challenge. It’s finding the time for human relationships with those I love that I can’t seem to perfect.
And MSB, I don’t think we’re meant to perfect human relationships. They’re meant to move and kick and scream. It’s that threshing around that makes them bigger, gives them substance, folds the edges of feelings through lives
He should be jealous. What can compare to a book trailing from the end of your fingers, making its way into the world, a part of you made real for all the world to see…
I need to unclench just enough to write a “dreadful dumb book.” Then everything will be okay. I must unclench just enough to allow myself to be brilliant, even if I’m the only one who thinks so. But I clench and clench. What am I holding onto? In the dark, alone, when there’s no one watching, and no one waiting to snatch what my clawed fingers encircle, (except God, and he sure as hell doesn’t want it), I open my first to have a look at my Precious, but my sweaty palm is empty.
Thank you, Mr. iPants.
You must, MUST, give yourself permission to be awful. This is the most fundamental thing I have learned as a writer. For me, writing with cheap materials in sloppy penmanship with misspelled words and rampant cliches is the mainline to whatever crude material exists and can be refined. You have to let go, be humble, assume you are awful (not a stretch in my case) and write anyway. You MUST get it down on the page, Tulasi-Priya, and push through whatever is keeping you inert.
We only live once. Don’t keel over with your fists clenched.
you’ll write your “dreadful dumb book.”
And just then, when you looked, it was there and you just didn’t see it.
The book isn’t Something Else, a something you hoped to see in your palm. Your book lies there, in the sweat, ready to fly from your fingers, and all through your space, only some of it needs find the page… and when it does, there you’ll find it… your book.
As dreadful and dumb and glorious and beautiful as you are yourself.
Your book, your books… they’re just pieces of you, in the sweat on the page, and you’d no more want to hold them inside you than a child that’s due to be born.
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Regards