I
used to believe that writing was like sex: If you weren’t in the mood, chances
are nothing much would happen. Oh, you might struggle out a few paragraphs or
fake your way through a page or two. But the good stuff, the sweating and
twisting and giving it all you have stuff? The pay-off stuff? That required a little
more mental (or should I say emotional?) finesse.
used to believe that writing was like sex: If you weren’t in the mood, chances
are nothing much would happen. Oh, you might struggle out a few paragraphs or
fake your way through a page or two. But the good stuff, the sweating and
twisting and giving it all you have stuff? The pay-off stuff? That required a little
more mental (or should I say emotional?) finesse.
But
I was in this writing group, you see. And each month I sat on various couches
in various houses as members handed in stories for discussion, and each month
my hands slumped empty because while I was working on a novel, I wasn’t ready
to see it through anyone else’s eyes (i.e., I was too insecure to let anyone
read it).
I was in this writing group, you see. And each month I sat on various couches
in various houses as members handed in stories for discussion, and each month
my hands slumped empty because while I was working on a novel, I wasn’t ready
to see it through anyone else’s eyes (i.e., I was too insecure to let anyone
read it).
Finally,
I announced that I would hand in work the following meeting. Then I drove home
and promptly forgot about my group.
I announced that I would hand in work the following meeting. Then I drove home
and promptly forgot about my group.
I
forgot for three weeks.
forgot for three weeks.
Then
one evening I came in from a long run. It was early May and the trails were
muddy and everything was turning that early green that feels so heartbreakingly
hopeful. I glanced at the calendar and suddenly realized that my writing group
met in less than a week and I had nothing to submit.
one evening I came in from a long run. It was early May and the trails were
muddy and everything was turning that early green that feels so heartbreakingly
hopeful. I glanced at the calendar and suddenly realized that my writing group
met in less than a week and I had nothing to submit.
I
decided to write something right then, something quick, a page or two, maybe
the beginning or a short story or a long prose poem. Nothing much, just
something to appease my guilt, you know?
decided to write something right then, something quick, a page or two, maybe
the beginning or a short story or a long prose poem. Nothing much, just
something to appease my guilt, you know?
I
sat down at the breakfast nook, still in my dirty running clothes, my shirt
reeking of sweat, my legs lined with mud. I sat and stared at my blank computer
screen and honestly, there was nothing I wanted to write about except running.
I was in the middle of marathon training and wanted to talk about how it felt
when I ran, the thrill and the pain of it, and how my mind first resisted this
pain and then folded around it, much like wrapping a Christmas present, and how
I nestled this pain to me, I carried it with me, savored it, enjoyed it in an
odd and satisfying way.
sat down at the breakfast nook, still in my dirty running clothes, my shirt
reeking of sweat, my legs lined with mud. I sat and stared at my blank computer
screen and honestly, there was nothing I wanted to write about except running.
I was in the middle of marathon training and wanted to talk about how it felt
when I ran, the thrill and the pain of it, and how my mind first resisted this
pain and then folded around it, much like wrapping a Christmas present, and how
I nestled this pain to me, I carried it with me, savored it, enjoyed it in an
odd and satisfying way.
I
started writing. I sat there in my smelly clothes, my lips coated with salt,
and I wrote. By the time I finally looked up, it was pastmidnight . I threw some
vegetables on the stove, let the dog out, fed the cats, and sat back down. I
wrote throughout the night. I didn’t shower or change my clothes. I sat there
in my own sweat, in my own stink, and wrote one of the most honest essays I’ve
ever produced.
started writing. I sat there in my smelly clothes, my lips coated with salt,
and I wrote. By the time I finally looked up, it was past
vegetables on the stove, let the dog out, fed the cats, and sat back down. I
wrote throughout the night. I didn’t shower or change my clothes. I sat there
in my own sweat, in my own stink, and wrote one of the most honest essays I’ve
ever produced.
Then
I collapsed on the futon and when I woke and read over what I had written, I
became afraid, the way I sometimes become afraid before I run, the anticipated
distance swimming up before me until I am sure, I am utterly convinced that
there is no way I can ever run sixteen or eighteen or twenty miles.
I collapsed on the futon and when I woke and read over what I had written, I
became afraid, the way I sometimes become afraid before I run, the anticipated
distance swimming up before me until I am sure, I am utterly convinced that
there is no way I can ever run sixteen or eighteen or twenty miles.
That
essay, “Running,” written so quickly, so furiously, when my glycogen levels
were depleted and my hands were shaking from fatigue, unexpectedly went on to
win the 2012 Sport Literate Essay Contest and was recently selected for the
Best American Sports Writing 2013 collection.
essay, “Running,” written so quickly, so furiously, when my glycogen levels
were depleted and my hands were shaking from fatigue, unexpectedly went on to
win the 2012 Sport Literate Essay Contest and was recently selected for the
Best American Sports Writing 2013 collection.
I
learned this: There is no magic writing formula, no perfect time to write. Or,
more bluntly, if you sit around waiting for your muse, you’re going to be
sitting on your ass for a long, long time.
learned this: There is no magic writing formula, no perfect time to write. Or,
more bluntly, if you sit around waiting for your muse, you’re going to be
sitting on your ass for a long, long time.
Yet,
most of us do this. I still do this. I tell myself, “I can’t write tonight. I’m
tired. I’m not in the mood. My stomach hurts.
most of us do this. I still do this. I tell myself, “I can’t write tonight. I’m
tired. I’m not in the mood. My stomach hurts.
Most
of us harbor the myth of the perfect writing room, the perfect writing moment,
the perfect piece of writing.
of us harbor the myth of the perfect writing room, the perfect writing moment,
the perfect piece of writing.
But
writing isn’t romantic. It’s work, and it’s hard, too. It’s the hardest thing
most of us will ever do. (Writing a book is much, much scarier and more
difficult than running a marathon, trust me on that.)
writing isn’t romantic. It’s work, and it’s hard, too. It’s the hardest thing
most of us will ever do. (Writing a book is much, much scarier and more
difficult than running a marathon, trust me on that.)
The
real loss of putting off writing or waiting for the perfect writing moment
isn’t so much in the story, essay or poem we never finish so much as the
opportunity writing presents, the chance to grow and expand, to connect to both
ourselves and others, to look out from our very small space of world and
realize that everything is bigger and lusher and more lasting than we had ever
imagined.
real loss of putting off writing or waiting for the perfect writing moment
isn’t so much in the story, essay or poem we never finish so much as the
opportunity writing presents, the chance to grow and expand, to connect to both
ourselves and others, to look out from our very small space of world and
realize that everything is bigger and lusher and more lasting than we had ever
imagined.
There’s
a saying among runners: You only regret the runs you never take.
a saying among runners: You only regret the runs you never take.
Writers
need to adopt a similar motto. We need to start regretting the stories we put
off for tomorrow. We need to sit down and tell them, today.
need to adopt a similar motto. We need to start regretting the stories we put
off for tomorrow. We need to sit down and tell them, today.
Cinthia Ritchie’s first
novel “Dolls Behaving Badly” released from Grand Central Publishing in
February. Her work can be found at “Best American Sports Essays2013,” “Evening Street Review,” Mary: A Journal of New Writing,”
“New York Times Magazine,” “Memoir,” Water-Stone Review,” “Sport Literate,”
“Third Wednesday” and others. She blogs about writing and running at www.cinthiaritchie.com.
novel “Dolls Behaving Badly” released from Grand Central Publishing in
February. Her work can be found at “Best American Sports Essays
“New York Times Magazine,” “Memoir,” Water-Stone Review,” “Sport Literate,”
“Third Wednesday” and others. She blogs about writing and running at www.cinthiaritchie.com.
Thanks for the great post, gave me the motivation to go back to my new story and work on it!
Cinthia– congratulations on the well-deserved honor and your description of that post-running writing experience is inspiring. Sometimes a fast-closing deadline and single-sitting sessions even help us write better and more candidly, just trying to get the words out on the paper without become tangled in ideas about form, voice, etc. Back when my kids were babies and I had no uninterrupted time to write, I twice whipped off essays on the same day of the ADN writing contest deadline, slipping them in at the final hour. The essays had lots of problems that revision might have corrected, but they were honest. In years since I've labored over longer essays that clearly aren't propelled by the same urgency, try too hard, become convoluted…or something. I don't even want to try to get them published. There is nothing better than a drive to say something very specific and a limited amount of time in which to do it. I can't wait to read your essay. Kudos again.
Thanks, Lynn! Hope you're happily writing away. And Andromeda, I totally agree with you. Once, in a creative writing class, Rich Chiappone (hi, Rich!) said, "If you want to write more, take on a second job." I think that's so true. The less time we have, the more we write. It doesn't make sense, but it does.
Love^3 power this:
"The real loss of putting off writing or waiting for the perfect writing moment isn’t so much in the story, essay or poem we never finish so much as the opportunity writing presents, the chance to grow and expand, to connect to both ourselves and others, to look out from our very small space of world and realize that everything is bigger and lusher and more lasting than we had ever imagined."