Juin Charnell

Not writing is writing (kind of)

You know those times when the story is percolating. And even though you aren’t putting words on the page because they are still floating in the ether of your brain, it still counts. Of course, you eventually need to put those words somewhere but in the in-between stage of brainstorming (internally) and regurgitating (externally) if you are holding true to your character, nothing is wasted.

I’m sure I’ve said this before but all those friends who don’t see you writing daily, who then want to question whether “you are a real writer” well to them, I say suck it. They don’t write, they don’t have the tenacity or guts to do what you are doing, so they can suck it. So while you may panic because you haven’t or aren’t producing as much as Joe Blow will have you thinking, remember that you are working on your writing while you are processing.

And hell, the first draft is just that anyway, so once you run through your second or third or twentieth draft, your story will be all the better for it. So mull. Walk through the park and be like the person talking to themselves without a blue tooth, we won’t mind, we’ll know you are talking to your characters and will be writing their story soon.

By the way, if you see me, talking to myself in the park, I’m not alone either. Peace.

Writing is my Independence Day

While people are grilling and waiting for fireworks, I’ll be sitting in a prison cell. I won’t get to smell the hot dogs, bar-b-que ribs, potato salad, pork and beans, chicken. I won’t get annoyed when the drunken uncle or aunt who has sipped too much wine or drank one to many beers starts reminiscing about the good old days from twenty years ago. I wish I could be there in my lawn chair watching the kids run through the sprinklers because it’s 90 degrees in the shade. I wish I could snuggle up behind my woman and tell her how much I appreciate the hard work she put in, getting the in-laws to visit, setting a wonderful table, letting me kick back and play a slamming game of bid whist or spades…

…unfortunately.

My spades partner will be sitting across from me holding on to his cigarette bids like they were chips from a casino. My “cocktail” will be surreptitiously sipped out my coffee cup between guards roaming eyes. My  beanie weenies will have to suffice as I imagine them tasting like smoked dogs off the grill, dripping with mustard and ketchup. My snuggle will happen later in my cell, as I can only visualize my dream lover, who is plastered on a cinder block wall, taped to stay in place.

My Independence Day was taken long ago. Well, I did my crime, I am now doing my time.
If you get a moment, come visit me.
Thompson
Inside Out

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