One of the things I struggle with most is how to be as effective with my writing as I can. It’s hard to ensure a daily output sometimes, there’s work, school and other parts of life which interfere and there are times when I just don’t know what to write about.
You may think that writing something crappy for the sake of writing is a bad idea but you’re wrong. It’s hugely beneficial, as a writer who writes everyday, to write a lot. It’s like working out a muscle, you just gotta do it sometimes whether you’re in the mood to or not. And besides, if you write a lot, even if you write crappy stories, you can always come back to it, rework the opening, change some of the dialogue.
But, what happens when you start to find other writing more attractive and fulfilling that the stuff you’re used to do?
Lately, I’ve devoted the large majority of my output to either posts on this site or articles at the paper. Part of it is that this writing is way more gratifying and I like that – when people tell me they like something I wrote or that I’m a good writer in general it makes my day. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t. But, it’s also easier to write this sort of material than stories and other fiction. Less thought – mainly because the story’s already there you just gotta shape it from the information you’ve collected. Also, I just find that my creative writing focuses on things that I’ve not enjoyed in life – it’s like I’m subconsciously trying to evaluate and analyze all the things that have irked me since I was a kid.
And writing as a therapeutic tool is fine, but that’s not what writing is for me at all. It’s not that hard to talk to a friend or significant other, in my opinion, you just gotta reach out and I’m pretty good at that. So, it’s left me trying to fill my brain with new experiences that will somehow colour my writing and I guess just keep me happy – from girls I’ve seen to out-there books to new friends (not that I’m using anyone, I’m just saying I’ve reached out to different people).
I guess I’m having trouble swinging back into the solitary and reclusive nature of a fiction writer. It’s not so thought out as that for me, but as I write this that’s what it seems to be. But, I also know that my passion and only purpose in life, that I know of so far anyways (family in the future?), is writing and so that’s what I am grappling with.
It feels less complicated now – so maybe writing is therapeutic for me?