Getting Comfortable
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009
I wrote some material today, but nothing that I’d feel comfortable posting to this blog. The deeper I get into the writing process, the more intimate the experience tends to be. I suppose that if writing is really a love of my life, then the time that we spend together would naturally become more comfortable and the conversations would get deeper. I am learning to love the writing experience, the sound of the words in my head – and their company, too – more so than the end product. The end result is important, though seems to matter less and less in the long run.
When I sit down to write, I know that some days are good for writing and that others would be better spent carrying out a life to gather material, but most are somewhere in the middle. Speed seems to be coming to me now. I can write better, faster. When the words are nearly dry, they at least tend to be accurate in what I’m describing. I am starting to see patterns in my writing behaviors and the subjects I choose to tackle.
I saw a photo of Tom Wolfe once in his white suit and matching hat, and began to associate all things summer with him. Granted, that impression came from the clothing he wore and not his words, but I’ve always wondered weather I would be a summer writer or winter writer, fall or spring. Steinbeck, Kerouac were spring. Vonnegut was summer. Capote was fall. And winter the rest. This might relate more to when I first read their works.
So, what am I? Definitely summer. Definitely warmer weather, possibly September, if it could be pinpointed by month, when the summer is beginning to fade and the nights turn cold, a foreshadow of winter. The words come easier and I getting closer to choosing the subject I am going to spend significant time on – something non-fiction, story-driven. I need to submerge myself in the subject and see what turns up. My intention is to tell someone else’s story, to empathize with their experience, and to learn about myself as anyone would in the process.
I am hoping to acquire a big sound, a monstrous voice that can’t be ignored. And it all starts quietly with a cat on my lap, looking out on the window well and a sliver of sky that turns to a sheet of black in early March at 8 p.m.
