What the hell is a writing process? I have no idea. It rhymes with abscess, and to my brain, that’s pretty much the same thing. I hate restrictions, and I work reasonably well in spite of them.
I know all about the one where you’re supposed to wake up at 5am, do God’s work by putting your inner thoughts to paper, and then leave for the gym at 9. I’ve tried that. It’s horrific. I end up ever so depressed waking up before daylight, even if it does come with the side-salad of feeling better than everybody else who’s still sleeping. The moral superiority complex just isn’t worth the maintenance.
With that being said, I’ve decided that my New Year’s Resolution is to have no goals at all. Not only am I lucky (?) to be alive, I’m at the point now where, if I keep pushing further and further, I’m going to have no space left to go, and at some point, the bubble will burst and I’ll fall fatally ill with some infectious condition. I can feel it in my bones.
So it’s going to be a slow one, this year. If I do exercise (I like to call this ‘gymming and swimming’ to make out like I’m one of those rich 1950s New York spinsters), I’m just going to run, or swim, or do whatever. Fuck it. Fuck setting goals for every modicum of interest in your life.
Where was I? Alright.
That’s kind of my point with the ‘writing process’. If I don’t slow things down enough, I end up sitting at my desk to write as if I’m a cocaine, Red Bull-infused, hyped-up motivational speaker. I may write awfully here (I’m allowed), but the actual book I want to dedicate all that insufferable work to is something of a higher-class individual who needs lengthy pampers and spa days out at Knightsbridge. That stuff is all in old-man voice, where he requests a pipe and a fresh pair of slippers on the hour, every hour. I give him a warm fireplace and buttered toast, and he gives me interesting things to say. It’s a happy marriage so far, and at least he won’t leave me.
Let’s be honest, we all know that the second you search for “writing process”, all that comes up is stuff like “schedules” and “yoga” and “mindfulness”. Eugh. I bloody hate mindfulness. Why the hell would I want to know why I’m thinking what I’m thinking, while I’m thinking it? I’d rather leave that stuff to my family. They can work out for themselves why I’m no longer talking to Aunt Agatha.
Do I have a writing process? Do I even know what a process is? Something like a chemistry experiment, with procedural steps that you only deviate from in decision-tree format.
[to be continued]