What I’m doing lately is writing on my iphone and emailing little bits of a new story to myself. Which is weird because I’ve never done that before. I’ve re-written the first sentence five times. I’ve got all these short emails with no subject line, just the same first sentence in the body, with the words slightly different each time.
Also I have a small green moleskine and I was making notes in it while I was driving. I can’t bring myself to look at it because I’m pretty sure it’s a mess and I’ll never be able to decipher it, and then I’ll get sad because of all those lost ideas. But anyway I am writing some fiction and that’s good.
Earlier today a friend of mine was upset because she’d been sitting at the library for hours and had gotten nothing done all day. She was sad about someone she loved who had passed away, that was the real story. It was his birthday and she missed him. It was getting in the way of her writing, and all she wanted to do was write. She’s the real deal, she gets it, she knows that the work is what carries you from one place to another. It’s your thruline.
I told her I was done talking to her, that she had to write 250 words, and then she would have done something with her day. Then she would feel better. “Bye,” I said. “xoxo.” Later in the afternoon she emailed me and said she had written 167 words so far.
Now I have to write 250 words tomorrow. I tell her to do it, I remind myself to do it, I’m telling you to do it, too. 250 words. That’s all you have to write to have done something with your day.
diverge 