On writing. We likes to talk, yes we does.

I see that at least three people on my friends list are at some point in the process of writing a novel, be it stuck on the first draft, partial re-write or editing and polishing.

There’s a part of me that would like to write a novel, but I’m not sure, despite the received wisdom that everybody has one novel in them, that I have one in me.

On those rare occasions when I am actually stirred to write anything more substantial than an LJ entry, I find that I end up after a paragraph or so, just staring off into the middle distance while tumbleweed chase the dust bunnies through my head. The problem is, you see, that quite apart from any question of the necessary self discipline to undertake any such task, I do not have a plot line in my head. Not even, at this moment, for a Dimpler Towers shaggy dog story – although I could fake that with pages of meandering and dust-encrusted description masquerading as atmosphere.

I find it hard, if not impossible, to start writing if I don’t have a clear view of the destination I am aiming for, whether or not I eventually get there, or divert off the main road for an interesting ramble down into the back woods of imagination, where the trivial becomes more engaging than the crucial, and where the irrelevant takes centre stage (not unlike this sentence, really).

At base, I am not a natural writer. I am more of a romancer; I like to talk and let my imagination wander off where it will, making connections as and where and when. When I’m in the right mood, and in full flow, I am told that this can be quite entertaining (though whether this means people are laughing at me or with me, I have never been clear...). The thing is that when this happens, my brain is like a processor, picking up random ideas and fitting them together, before pushing them out. Sadly, memory is rarely involved, other than as a source of information. Certainly none of the connections I make stick long enough to stay in my memory, so I couldn’t write them down afterwards. The torture of it all is, that I can remember that I had some good ideas, but I only remember the having, not the ideas themselves.

I guess that’s why I write so often on LJ. Apart from anything else, it is essentially just nattering with a keyboard. I just happen to type instead of speak.

But I’m not one of nature’s writers.

On writing. We likes to talk, yes we does.

I see that at least three people on my friends list are at some point in the process of writing a novel, be it stuck on the first draft, partial re-write or editing and polishing.

There’s a part of me that would like to write a novel, but I’m not sure, despite the received wisdom that everybody has one novel in them, that I have one in me.

On those rare occasions when I am actually stirred to write anything more substantial than an LJ entry, I find that I end up after a paragraph or so, just staring off into the middle distance while tumbleweed chase the dust bunnies through my head. The problem is, you see, that quite apart from any question of the necessary self discipline to undertake any such task, I do not have a plot line in my head. Not even, at this moment, for a Dimpler Towers shaggy dog story – although I could fake that with pages of meandering and dust-encrusted description masquerading as atmosphere.

I find it hard, if not impossible, to start writing if I don’t have a clear view of the destination I am aiming for, whether or not I eventually get there, or divert off the main road for an interesting ramble down into the back woods of imagination, where the trivial becomes more engaging than the crucial, and where the irrelevant takes centre stage (not unlike this sentence, really).

At base, I am not a natural writer. I am more of a romancer; I like to talk and let my imagination wander off where it will, making connections as and where and when. When I’m in the right mood, and in full flow, I am told that this can be quite entertaining (though whether this means people are laughing at me or with me, I have never been clear...). The thing is that when this happens, my brain is like a processor, picking up random ideas and fitting them together, before pushing them out. Sadly, memory is rarely involved, other than as a source of information. Certainly none of the connections I make stick long enough to stay in my memory, so I couldn’t write them down afterwards. The torture of it all is, that I can remember that I had some good ideas, but I only remember the having, not the ideas themselves.

I guess that’s why I write so often on LJ. Apart from anything else, it is essentially just nattering with a keyboard. I just happen to type instead of speak.

But I’m not one of nature’s writers.