I an sitting here, at my kitchen table, writing this. A long time ago (yesterday morning) I was sitting here writing a post about tupperware and wotnot. No. Really. But don’t worry, I won’t be posting it.
I’ve been re-reading Stephen King’s On Writing, and thinking a bit about how I write, and where, and why.
I write at the kitchen/dining room table. I don’t know why, it just seems to suit me. I have a small study, crammed with books, a comfy chair and a desk with a decent desktop computer on it. I write there during the summer, else I write at the kitchen table. In the summer I listen to music, in the winter I listen to the night.
I tend to be at my most productive first thing in the morning, or very last thing at night. I have also been developing a nicely productive slot just after work, from about 6pm until 8pm. But my favourite times for writing are between 4 and 7 in the morning, and 11 and 2 at night, when the world is at its most quiet.
I write everything on my netbook or computer, except for poetry, that I have to do by hand. I am happiest when it is by hand with a pencil. I just love pencil on paper.
I also write in the shower (in my head) and on the run (also in my head); stories and plot points during the former, blog posts during the latter. Again, I’m not entirely sure why.
I do drink occasionally whilst writing; the truth is that I don’t really like to drink that much (although a Crabbies or port can be rather nice) and I don’t think it does much for my creativity or motivation. Food, on the other hand…
I write because I love it, and because, so I have been told, I am not that bad at it. I write because it is one of the things I do, and one of the things I love. I used to be more fearless when I was younger, I simply wrote what I felt and wanted to write. Now it is harder to do, more considered, more doubtful. Wobbly, even. Fear is the little death, the mind killer.
If anything I am more aware of the gap between where I am and where I wish to be; now than when I was much younger. I had the same problem with running; capable of 1 mile, 18 seemed immense and impossible. Now it isn’t, and the same is slowly happening with the writing. Sometimes simply doing simply does.
I love writing because I love reading. There is a part of me that wishes that, one day, I bring the same sense of wonder, excitement and captivation to somebody that I have experienced so many times since I began to read.
I am not sure what I write best. Small emotional pieces, I think. Novels are hard. Short stories not much easier. I love flash fiction. I love poetry. I love haiku, so like flash fiction in the freedom of its constraint.
I write because I have stories and images and snippets of life in my head. I have tales and myths to tell; with all their emotions, dreams, nightmares, hopes and despairs.
I write because I am at my most me when I write.