When You Start Writing One True Sentence

Summary

The text describes a writer's journey from a blank page to a stream of consciousness, triggered by the simple act of typing one true sentence.

Abstract

The writer begins with a moment of stillness, staring at an empty screen, until a single, genuine thought sparks the writing process. As the writer types, the words flow freely, bypassing initial doubts and the need for immediate grammatical perfection. The act of writing leads to a creative awakening, inspired in part by external stimuli like a chestnut tree and internal reflections, including a reluctance to engage in a difficult personal conversation. The narrative weaves through the writer's internal struggle to avoid confronting a recent argument, the presence of a fly in the room serving as a metaphor for entrapment, and the battle with the inner critic. Ultimately, the writer acknowledges the accomplishment of transforming a blank page into a coherent piece, deciding to conclude the writing session and enjoy life outside of the room.

Opinions

The writer expresses a belief in the power of starting with a single authentic sentence to overcome writer's block.
There is a sense of satisfaction and happiness in the act of writing, regardless of initial hesitation or uncertainty.
The writer acknowledges the importance of silencing the inner critic to continue the creative process and avoid leaving work unfinished.
The text suggests that writing can serve as an escape from personal issues, yet it can also inadvertently lead back to them.
The writer seems to value the advice and inspiration drawn from external sources, such as podcasts, which can stimulate the flow of ideas.
There is an opinion that the process of writing is not always logical or coherent, but it is a necessary part of creating something meaningful.

…without even knowing what it’s going to be about

It happens to me sometimes. Like now. I just sit in front of an empty screen. My hands dangling above the keyboard. Fingers impatiently waiting. Like a flock of hungry hawks, they scream to my brain “give us something to work with. Just through us some words! Is it so hard?”

I turn my head to the right. There’s a sunny yard behind the window. The chestnut tree is waving its fat-fingered leaves. Today is a beautiful day. Type it.

Fingers pecking this sentence. They are happy. “At last!”

As the sound of clattering keys is reaching my ears, another sentence goes to the fingers. And another. Sometimes I’m not sure how to say things. But I have to shut my inner hesitator and keep on writing. Write, for god’s sake. Write! No need to think of correct grammar. You’ll do it later.

I know, it’s a cliche, but creative juices are starting to flow. (BTW, I took this phrase from Storyosophy — one of my favorite podcasts on writing).

Now it’s something we can jump on to. For you, my reader, I draw the door. There’s someone behind them. Someone’s listening. But who? You know perfectly well, who. She listens to my typing march as she passes through the door. Normally she would enter, but the sound of my typewriter holds her for some time. She doesn’t want to disturb me. So she leaves.

I must write just to avoid this unpleasant conversation. I don’t want to write about it. Not now, at least. It’s too personal. But I can’t think about anything else. I try hard.

I have nothing to say to her about last night. Ohh… here it comes. You said you are not going to say it, I mean, not to write about it. It’s too late now. Once you started, you must finish.

Last night I said mean things about her dress. We got into a fight (not physical, but still). It happened in the local bar. She said I’m like my father. In return I said, she’s a whore. And so on… End of the story. Let’s jump to something else.

The fly.

There is a fly in the room. What is the name of the sound she produces? Buzz, right? So, she buzzes. Somehow the fly is a woman in my language. She wants to get out of the room. But she can’t. Because the window is closed. This fly reminds me. I’m trying to escape this room, but the text is keeping me. I have to do something. How can I finish it?

What do you mean, finish? You’re doing well.

No. It makes no sense. I know, but was it supposed to. Now I’m looking for excuses to get out of this room. But this story holds me. At one moment my brains and fingers are going to be exhausted. And if I’m leaving it unpublished, I’ll probably not do it later. Or is it my inner critic speaking.

I shut him up.

Remember, not a long time ago this was an empty page. You were sitting here watching without even knowing what to write. You did it. You can go now. Enjoy life

So I stop.