Minding my own business

I was sitting here, working on a story, minding my own business, when I glanced at the clock.

11:08 p.m.

And today’s post is still a figment of my imagination.

Or it was. Or, more accurately, they were.

The process never varies.

I spend the day writing, reading, laundering, driving, meeting, critiquing, shopping, cooking and whatever other –ing happens along. And all the while, ideas whirl inside my head: I’ll write about this–and this–and this–and every this comes bearing its own first line, flawlessly conceived, flawlessly phrased, flawlessly flawless.

But by the time I open the screen with the words Add New Post emblazoned across the top, I find creation vaporized, all my pretty chickens taken in one fell swoop.

O hell-kite.

All right, that’s not what happens. Not literally anyway. Except for the hell-kite part. It’s genuine.

What happens is that I forget. I don’t carry little index cards in my pocket, as Anne Lamott says I should, or a little notebook in my purse. I don’t stop to record my epiphanies. I keep on whirling.

And then it’s 11:08, or in the instant case, 11:52 p.m. and counting, and I’ve said I’ll post daily, so I have to post something, so I just catch the nearest way. And tonight this is it.

The daily miracle

The most serious problem the writer encounters is coming up with a topic, coming up with an original topic, finding the form you’re comfortable with, writer’s block, creating interesting characters, writing sparkling dialogue, finding your voice, weeding out unnecessary modifiers, weeding out passive voice, appealing to the five senses, revising, finding a good critique group, accepting criticism, polishing the manuscript, f inding an agent, selling the manuscript, hanging in there… forgetting how the process works, forgetting the process works, forgetting the process forgetting the daily miracle will come.