Quality Writing vs. Quantity

In the last two crazy, turned-upside-down years of my life, I have written not nearly as much as I wanted to. As a result, I have vacillated between mercilessly berating myself and doling out enough free rein to hang by my neck from a redwood. But in all honesty, when life’s biggest stressors hit you one after the other — ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom — you really do have to pause and breathe, assimilate the changes and make new plans, and allow yourself the room to get back on track without the constant, harping guilt — courtesy of yours truly.

Shouts Out and Thanks!

I wanted to send a big coupla shouts out to readers and kindred spirit writers who visit my blog pretty regularly, and whom I visit regularly because they have such great insight and, well, a grand way with words. You want writerly wisdom and entertainment value, here you go. In no particular order:

Fifthwind: A Writer’s Journey. Ken Kiser has written his first big book and now chronicles the query process — the good, bad, and the fugly — while entertaining us with his wealth of knowledge on the craft of writing. Check him out for some friendly words of wisdom.
 

Self-Taught Writer

When I was five years old, I spelled my first word. Back then, it was rare that kids went to Kindergarten (no heckles, please, from the lugnut gallery), so I learned about letters and sounds on my own. I was pretty proud of myself when I took my carefully crayoned word in to my father, who was doing his business on the toilet.

Smell Your History

While I was lazing in bed yesterday morning, I gazed out my window at the queen palms, crepe myrtles, and redbuds fluttering every which way in our windy backyard. The temperature of my room felt cool and dry, and something else in the air struck such a familiar chord it sent my mind back to days long-since forgotten. Instantly, I was my eight-year-old self, leaving the house for school, and I saw the world not through the eyes of an adult, but through my eight-year-old eyes.

Release the Brain Clutter

That same brain clutter had directly affected my imagination and, consequently, my NIP suffered from severe plot deprivation. I couldn’t see my way around it and didn’t have the energy to screw with it. I was constantly spinning my wheels, yearning for direction, gazing into darkened deadends — all my “what-ifs” looking more like “so-whats.”