I felt the storm approaching hours ago. The air was heavy with the smell of moisture, the wind changed from a gusting unpredictable mess to a steady breeze. As I sipped on a beer, watching the light thunderstorm roll in, I felt the inspiration growing in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn't help but be jealous of writers 60-100 years ago.
They had the freedom to just write. There were thousands of magazines held to the highest prestige to be published in. There weren't televisions, smartphones, ADD, anxiety, or Direct TV. There was the writer, his words, and perhaps some booze.
Sometimes I want so bad to be able to just go spend a few years in Paris, sipping French wine, and writing about life experiences. I would love to go to a Spanish bullfight with Hemmingway and sip Bourbon with Fitzgerald at the Seelbach. I'd love to smoke some cigars with Twain as we floated down the Mississippi.
Who are the great American writers now? The Twilight chick? George R.R. Martin? Do any of these people have a real persona?
Authors no longer get published based on skill, rather the marketability of the future film or HBO TV series. The more vampires and teenage melodrama included, the more likely your book will have visibility at your local Barnes and Noble.
Maybe its not all marketability. I've touched on the correlation between the numbness your job creates in your brain and the ability to be creative. And, in a way, I've started proving it. I have a better job now and my writing has increased substantially. Hell, if you look at the sheer amount of blogs I've written in the past six months compared to the entirety of the three years before, you can see it.
Quantity doesn't necessarily mean quality, but at least I've been able to think of topics to write about.
I'm still not there. Steven King said you need to lock yourself in a room and just write for an hour every day. I don't feel I have that luxury but maybe, just maybe I can start slow.
Two hours every week. That's what I'm promising to myself.
3 years ago