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I’ve cracked the hundred page mark on SWALLOWING DARKNESS. There is something about being in the hundreds, even by a little, that gives one confidence, or it gives me confidence. Somehow, until I see triple digits in the corner of the page, the book has barely begun. But to be over a hundred pages into a book, that’s a substantial mark. The next mark is 150 pages, then 200, then 250, then 300, well, you get the idea. Though, strangely, page 50 on it’s own, doesn’t move me much. It’s not enough. I need that one in front of it for fifty to make me happy.
I’ve been writing my morning pages like I used to jog. I’d promise myself just get to that mailbox, then I’d rest. I wouldn’t really rest, because then I’d pick another land mark out. Just run to that stop sign. To that corner. That tree. In pieces, sort of lying to myself, I’d do my four miles. By that last mile I’d have my runner’s high, and I wouldn’t need to carrot and stick myself, it felt great, but it took me three miles to get to that last mile and feel good. I realized recently that I write like I jog.
The beginning is rarely pleasant. You don’t want to do it. It seems hard. But you begin, putting one foot in front of the other; one word in front of another. In writing I promise myself, just ten lines, then I can get up and get tea, or change music. Then just a page, I know when I’ve got twenty lines on a page I’m close to the end of that page, so I can almost always get myself to sit there until it rolls over to the next page. Eighteen lines is close enough, but thirteen, or sixteen, is further away, and it’s harder to force myself to sit and write. But I do it, then I have a page.
One page down, three to go, but you don’t think of it that way. It’s like jogging, don’t think I did a mile now only three to go and I can stop. No, think okay I reached the mailbox, now to the stop sign, I can do that much. Okay, now just finish this paragraph, this scene, I can do this. Second page, and it’s still painful just like that second mile. Third page, sometimes you pick up a rhythm, but sometimes it’s just a slog, like that third mile. Now, when running, that fourth mile was my runner’s high, in writing it’s not so predictable. Sometimes I finish page four and it’s almost as slow and agonizing as page one. But often, I find that around page four I get a rush of muse. Then I can finish pages in a wonderful gush of creativity; a writer’s high. When you do lot’s of pages in minutes and don’t keep track because you’re simply writing to keep up. It’s great when the muse pulls the cart, rather then you having to push it.
Today was one of those agonizing days. It’s Saturday, I didn’t want to work today. But I have to, to have any chance of making my deadline. So, I got up early and came to the computer. I have six pages, and the last three were done in a rush, not a crawl, but I would never have gotten to those three if I hadn’t crawled through the first three pages.