Working 24 of the 48 weekend hours as a rare blood courier kept me from visiting the blogs of my friends this weekend. I slept most of Monday exhausted.
Now, onto my post:
Do you write as if your novel were a pressurized airplane cabin?
Are your characters insulated from the truth of their environment?
Is your locale as flat as a cardboard movie backdrop?
Are there smells to your surroundings? Does the soft breeze make an airy stew of their aromas?
Or do you drag your poor reader down sterile, silent streets?
What are the prevailing winds of mindset, manners, and economic demands of your setting?
Does your main character sail against them? Or does he/she flounder in their wake?
Or does he, puppet-like, go through lifeless motions, tugged by your whims and not by motivations relate-able to your readers?
And what about you as a writer?
Do you persist? Or do you stall out when the words become lost in the mist.
Persistence. It is what separates those just playing from those dedicated to the dream.
When the writing is sluggish that is when it is most important to bull through to the end. Writing is like life in that.
Winners don't stop when they meet resistance. Weight resistance builds muscle. Blank-out resistance builds fine prose.
Persistence is the heart. The story is the soul.
For luck, Ernest Hemingway used to carry a rabbit's foot in his right pocket. The fur had long since been worn off. The bones and sinews were polished by wear.
The claws scratched in the lining of his pocket,
and by that sting he knew his luck was still there.
Why was that?
When you feel the scratch of life against you, you know that your luck as a writer is still at your back. How is that?
The sting of life makes you aware:
of your own humanity,
of others' failings and strengths,
of the precious fragility of life.
And that awareness gives your pen the gift of perception, depth, and heart.
What did Ernest put in his journal? :
"Travel and writing broaden your ass, if not your mind, so I try to write standing up."