My primary goal today, in honor of my father and Ray Bradbury, as part of my attempt to rage against the dying of the light and to rekindle the fire, was to do some writing. I didn’t have any story ideas burning up my brain, which scared the bejeezus out of me, but I desperately felt that I needed to write some prose. So I headed to a coffee shop in downtown Lawrence, got out my laptop, opened up a new document, and said to myself, “Write, goddamn you! Write!” I figured I could at least start writing stream of consciousness and maybe get a halfway-usable prose-poem out.
I’d been looking at steampunk images online earlier in the day and I had the words “clockwork” and “swords” floating around in my head. A character popped into my head, so I started writing about what they were doing. Another character suddenly appeared at the side of the first character. Some action started. And suddenly, I had a plot. When I got 750 words written, I tweeted, “I’ve just written 750 words. Can I make it to 1,000?” After four hours in the coffee shop, I had written just over 2,300 words and had come to love the characters I’d created. I could see where the story was going, I had a good feel for the setting, I had ideas for bits I felt needed to be added to the beginning of the story, and I had lost track of time while writing. It was one of the best feelings I’ve had in a long, long time. I was in the zone.
I get so anxious about writing–about not having anything to write about, about not writing anything good–that it’s often easy to forget just how much I love writing. It was incredibly good to be reminded today. And to be proud of what I accomplished.