You know that feeling: itchy fingers, voices in your head, ideas backing up, the urge to sit and type like a maniac through a scene, a tirade of dialogue, a well-strung motif? That’s where I am at, about to break out in a rash of words.
But there is a hold, the ever present disruption of life. I have other work to do. So the log jam of voices stack up like train cars bumping into each other, linkages snapping in place, and me hoping I don’t run out of track in this backward build up of freight cars.
I bleed off pressure by writing on note cards quick bits I might forget, short cues of dialogue, beginnings to leap off from, to prime the pump when that moment of tunnel writing pulls into view.
That is the nature of being a writer while working at a job that does not include being a writer. I have said before that I teach and that teaching keeps me quite busy. I live two lives which impose on each other, sparring for my time, my creativity and my concentration. I do not fear boredom when I retire. And sometimes lesson planning turns into an intense creative process that is nearly as satisfying as completing a chapter, getting through a bit of emotional dialogue, typing ###.
But at this moment, writing now this little post will have to suffice as a tug on the rope to let off steam until this weekend provides a few hours of uninterrupted racing down the tracks of my current book coming to an end or my next book establishing its voice, both rattled into line, the engine having gathered enough pressure to make my breaks squeal against the anticipation.
Who else is at the station? How are you holding out?
#creativity
#writing
#waiting
