Those endless hours alone are turning ugly.
Along with changing your writing landscape, consider tapping into collective genius. Form a writing productivity group that checks their ‘critic’ gene at the door.
Branching out with my writing
Those endless hours alone are turning ugly.
Along with changing your writing landscape, consider tapping into collective genius. Form a writing productivity group that checks their ‘critic’ gene at the door.
It’s called ‘authorial laryngitis’.
A loss of your writer’s voice.
You’re able to spit out words on your screen, but they don’t accurately reflect ‘you’.
Let’s cut to Allen Ginsberg for a solution:
“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
In your desperate search for tantalizing bits of dialogue, you saunter into a coffee shop and slither into eavesdropping mode.
A few tips:
And if you’re too busy to intrude, there are probably a few non-virtual assistants willing to help out.
Consider the debilitating carpal tunnel syndrome.
Cut back on flipping through pages of writer magazines, clicking through cat videos, and flinging your pencils across the room during those inevitable struggles with mushy middles.
Another species perhaps?
This one’s unequivocal apathy to your ‘read-backs’ should steel you in the face of future unappreciative audiences.
Your work eschews profanity.
No reason to start that &*^%! now, right?
You don’t need %$#! or ^*@#@! or ^@#&! to verbidextrously [don’t bother looking it up] weave your way through that tense showdown between the mallwalking retirees.
Someone will advise you to ‘niche down’.
Say what? You might be tempted to find that ‘son of a niche’ who came up with the term.
Calm yourself and stick to your strength writing.
That part-time job sounds good. But will it feed your search for new characters?
Or will it feed your need to dine on more than chicken[ish] ramen with taco seasoning? [Talk about Asian fusion…]
You bored yourself silly while outlining your memoir.
Wisely, you will pull the plug.
[No one deserves to see your prom photos. Really? Powder blue with ruffles?]
I had just opened the book Writing for Story, by Jon Franklin, and began reading one of his highly-acclaimed stories, entitled Mrs. Kelly’s Monster, that detailed surgical procedures to relieve a patient of almost four decades of suffering from a malformation of blood vessels in the back of her brain.
And I thought…36 years of agony, all the while partnering with her husband to raise a family.
And I thought…and here I am whimpering and simpering about Facebook’s cluelessness about member requests that vaporize.
And I thought…get off your duff and keep writing!
And I thought…you folks should too!
Dig in! Ramp it up! Kick some literary booty! Go!