It’s strange how writing fiction goes. Yesterday I had a wonderful time of it. I wrote with enthusiasm, tapped into a nice rhythm and really got into the story and the characters. My writing was fluid and inspired. Before I knew it I had reached my goal of 1500 words and none too shabby ones at that. I then wrote the day’s blog post in less than half an hour and left the house to do various chores. “I’m on a roll!” I thought, a little smug. “I’m finding my feet and developing my own style. The sky’s the limit.”
Then I got up this morning and started typing away as usual. But something was different. I wasn’t really feeling the characters – they seemed a little two-dimensional, not very realistic. The story seemed to crawl along. I suspected that it was a bit crap, a bit boring. ‘He wonders, she wonders, he looks up, she looks away…’ learn some new words woman! My descriptions were clichéd, my dialogue was as fascinating as cardboard and the build up of tension between the characters was a yawn fest. 800 words in and I wanted to fling my laptop out the window like a frisbee. I finally stopped at 1100 words and I was actually relieved, as it meant fewer words to rewrite later.
Dem’s da breaks! I reckon that it’s good to write every day though, even when I’m not feeling that inspired. Otherwise I’m just a lazy job-dodging lady of leisure. And more importantly I risk getting rusty and losing the thread of the story.
