On the rare occasion I am struck with inspiration, it all pours out of me. Easy. I feel accomplished, considerably empty, proud, and like this is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
And yet.
And yet.
And yet it doesn’t happen like that most of the time.
Most of the time I sit at my laptop and try to write something half-decent. Sometimes it is. Other times it’s not. There are good writing days and bad writing days but most of the time there are just days, where everything is normal and I fall asleep, barely aware that a day has passed at all. All my yesterdays join together and I write but none of the words stand out because they’re just words. They give my characters mannerisms and speech and lives to live but all in all they’re just letters that make up a story.
But the story; the story is going to be something.
But the story wouldn’t be something if all I did was sit around waiting for those rare occasions where I am struck with inspiration. If all I did was wait I would move ve-e-e-e-ery slowly and I’d never finish anything.
Inspiration doesn’t write novel outlines, doesn’t fill in plot holes. Inspiration motivates and might give me a good line or two, maybe even a short story, but if I’m going to write a novel then I’m going to have to write it. Inspiration will only carry me so far.
On that note, I might have to get back to it. Practise what you preach, as they say. Not that you would know otherwise, but I would and that counts for something.
Sarah xx
the softest words 