We All Start by Writing Badly

Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

992

Abstract

king for that treasured, wasted half sandwich or tossed jelly donut, reminded me of my writing. I was sitting on our favorite bench, sipping on a glass of Russian River chardonnay, waiting for some random bird to poop some writing magic onto my head, but nothing but senseless gibberish filled a single page in my notebook. The old guy then moved on to the next garbage can and I realized my entire writing career was a reflection of him.How much garbage do I have to endure, how many endless hours at my desk late at night do I have to submit to in life, so I can finally create a few words someone might read, smile, and maybe mumble, “now that is good”?The issue is time. We start writing a few lines of poetry, show it to our long-suffering spouses or friends, who dutifully love it, then we believe we are just a few pages away from our first Pulitzer within a few months. Why? Why does anyone who starts writing expect to find the treasure a wee

Options

k after they begin?If you want to write, you must have an incredible sense of persistence to survive. We all write crap, some of us for years, before those first few lines appear we know, sitting in our old sweatpants at 2:00 in morning drooling over a keyboard, that yes, this might be good. I look back at my early writing and it embarrasses me…yet I wouldn’t change a thing. Bad writing has given me the hope of good writing to come someday.Those earliest pieces are my crap, my garbage can to dig through looking for the treasure I know is out there if I don’t quit, not now, not this close. I walked past the guy on the way out of the park, handed him my bottle of wine and a wad of cash, as close to treasure as he would likely find today. Home to my desk to scribble out a few more words, still believing someday, after a lifetime of digging out of my own pile of crap, I will find those words that will set my writing spirit free.</article></body>

You must have an incredible sense of persistence to create

By Fever Pitched on iStock (image licensed by author)

Just wrote for an entire morning, five pages, all crap. I stared at the mess for another half an hour, thinking of editing it into something I could stand, and I just couldn’t do it. All the editing in the world would barely turn this garbage into even mediocre.

Woke up the dogs under my desk and we headed to the park hoping the sun might heal my damaged writing soul. Friday being Friday, I packed a bottle of cold wine in my pack, along with dog bones, my writing notebook and a good book if inspiration failed to materialize from the summer air.

Watching a homeless guy digging through the garbage, looking for that treasured, wasted half sandwich or tossed jelly donut, reminded me of my writing. I was sitting on our favorite bench, sipping on a glass of Russian River chardonnay, waiting for some random bird to poop some writing magic onto my head, but nothing but senseless gibberish filled a single page in my notebook. The old guy then moved on to the next garbage can and I realized my entire writing career was a reflection of him.

How much garbage do I have to endure, how many endless hours at my desk late at night do I have to submit to in life, so I can finally create a few words someone might read, smile, and maybe mumble, “now that is good”?

The issue is time. We start writing a few lines of poetry, show it to our long-suffering spouses or friends, who dutifully love it, then we believe we are just a few pages away from our first Pulitzer within a few months. Why? Why does anyone who starts writing expect to find the treasure a week after they begin?

If you want to write, you must have an incredible sense of persistence to survive. We all write crap, some of us for years, before those first few lines appear we know, sitting in our old sweatpants at 2:00 in morning drooling over a keyboard, that yes, this might be good. I look back at my early writing and it embarrasses me…yet I wouldn’t change a thing. Bad writing has given me the hope of good writing to come someday.

Those earliest pieces are my crap, my garbage can to dig through looking for the treasure I know is out there if I don’t quit, not now, not this close. I walked past the guy on the way out of the park, handed him my bottle of wine and a wad of cash, as close to treasure as he would likely find today. Home to my desk to scribble out a few more words, still believing someday, after a lifetime of digging out of my own pile of crap, I will find those words that will set my writing spirit free.