I once had a journalism professor—a famous, bloated wound of a man who harvested cliches and sprinkled them like fresh grown wisdom—relish in telling his classes that the cure for writer's block was writing.
Duh doy.
And yet, like all the best advice, it's the simplicity that makes the task so daunting. We (and yes, I'm dragging the general public into this) believe that there's got to be some other secret, a magic key that only reveals itself to the recipient at some opportune moment. There's a magical combination of words, or a ritual performed under the right moon, or even just the fallback of knowing the right person to make things true.
Some of those have a kernel of truth. After all, I do firmly believe you have to toss spilled salt over you shoulder. Rituals have weight.
But results come from action.
Last year, I lost weight and got healthier by exercising. At least thirty minutes a day, five days a week. No shakes, no programs, and I didn't count calories (though I know that's worked for others). I just did it. No exceptions. Not even at full capacity every day. The action mattered.
This applies to everything, absolutely everything, we want from life. Take any of my artistic ambitions. I don't know why it's taken me almost thirty years, much of which was spent editing the work of other writers, to realize that writers are people who write. I won't suddenly have more time. I won't suddenly have better ideas. I have to write. I have to put in the work.
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The past six months, I've written when my students write. I've given myself dialogue challenges. I've created characters. I've written fantasy and mystery and dystopia. Most are trash. Some are...intriguing. A few characters have stuck with me, and always the ones I discovered as I freely wrote.
I'm writing. And I can see a future, a misty-edged vision of morning pages and filled notebooks. I just need to do the work.
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