I’m giving my new schedule one month. One month to make writing a routine again. It’s a simple switch: write in the morning, exercise at night.
Of course the post-work workout is not ideal, susceptible as it is to the rearrangement of life’s furniture--dinner with friends, late afternoon conference calls, math problems or moon observation journals run-amok. But after a week of easing into consciousness fingers-first, I think it’s better this way for now. Better for my health and sanity, tonot hit the ground running every morning. (And better yet to not hit the ground at all.)
For the past year, I’ve been writing when the spirit moves me, which according to the experts is not how it’s done. People keep asking me when I’m going to write a book, and I think awww, a book. That’s so CUTE. In order to write a book, I would first have to write some sentences, no? Like several of them together, all “relating” to one another? I think that’s how that works.
Then last night a friend asked me if I were secretly submitting work toMcSweeney’s under a pen name. SHE IS SO CUTE. And while that’s all very flattering, it’s also haaaaabsurd. If I were submitting work to McSweeney’s I can assure you I wouldn’t be cowering behind a pseudonym. And if McSweeney’s were to publish my work, I’d be walking around with a name badge that said “HELLO my name is Amanda Recently-Published-in-McSweeney’s O’Brien (that’s O’Brien with an E)”.
McSweeney’s is some funny shit.
But getting published isn’t really my game at the moment. Getting clarity is. Blabbermouse turns eight years old this month, which means I’ve been writing this blog longer than I’ve held any one job.
I think it’s safe to say writing matters to me.
Okay. LALALALALALA. Stop. Gross. I feel a love circle coming on. A moist-pitted hippy named Sven is going to leap out of my screen and start giving me a back rub in a second. Nothing on earth makes me feel more ridiculous than PONDERING MY WRITING LIFE out loud. I'm like eight minutes away from raising my hand and asking Ann Patchett how to get an agent. Jesus.
BE COOL, AMANDA.
The point is this: writing this blog is the one thing that has made me consistently happy over the past eight years. I’ve never questioned it. Never considered calling it quits.
I can’t say that about anything else. Not singing. Or acting. Ordrawing. Or playing the guitar. Or marketing. (Though I doubt there’s a living soul who could say that about marketing. And if there is, GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE.) I’ve thrown myself into a lot of things over the years, but writing is the only one that’s stuck.
And the only way to really know where it’s going is to follow it. Closely. Not just on the days when I’m feeling yippy and inspired.
So much can happen in eight years,
Of course the post-work workout is not ideal, susceptible as it is to the rearrangement of life’s furniture--dinner with friends, late afternoon conference calls, math problems or moon observation journals run-amok. But after a week of easing into consciousness fingers-first, I think it’s better this way for now. Better for my health and sanity, tonot hit the ground running every morning. (And better yet to not hit the ground at all.)
For the past year, I’ve been writing when the spirit moves me, which according to the experts is not how it’s done. People keep asking me when I’m going to write a book, and I think awww, a book. That’s so CUTE. In order to write a book, I would first have to write some sentences, no? Like several of them together, all “relating” to one another? I think that’s how that works.
Then last night a friend asked me if I were secretly submitting work toMcSweeney’s under a pen name. SHE IS SO CUTE. And while that’s all very flattering, it’s also haaaaabsurd. If I were submitting work to McSweeney’s I can assure you I wouldn’t be cowering behind a pseudonym. And if McSweeney’s were to publish my work, I’d be walking around with a name badge that said “HELLO my name is Amanda Recently-Published-in-McSweeney’s O’Brien (that’s O’Brien with an E)”.
McSweeney’s is some funny shit.
But getting published isn’t really my game at the moment. Getting clarity is. Blabbermouse turns eight years old this month, which means I’ve been writing this blog longer than I’ve held any one job.
I think it’s safe to say writing matters to me.
Okay. LALALALALALA. Stop. Gross. I feel a love circle coming on. A moist-pitted hippy named Sven is going to leap out of my screen and start giving me a back rub in a second. Nothing on earth makes me feel more ridiculous than PONDERING MY WRITING LIFE out loud. I'm like eight minutes away from raising my hand and asking Ann Patchett how to get an agent. Jesus.
BE COOL, AMANDA.
The point is this: writing this blog is the one thing that has made me consistently happy over the past eight years. I’ve never questioned it. Never considered calling it quits.
I can’t say that about anything else. Not singing. Or acting. Ordrawing. Or playing the guitar. Or marketing. (Though I doubt there’s a living soul who could say that about marketing. And if there is, GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE.) I’ve thrown myself into a lot of things over the years, but writing is the only one that’s stuck.
And the only way to really know where it’s going is to follow it. Closely. Not just on the days when I’m feeling yippy and inspired.
So much can happen in eight years,
I say, here's to at least eight more.
RSS Feed
