Friday, June 11, 2010

Quiet Night

DH is off at the graduation for his school, and I have had a mellow and productive evening.

500+ words of memoir-ish second person narrative about first loves has raised a spot of guilt with me: I always feel like I am wasting time when I write things that will never, ever, ever in my lifetime see the light of a publisher's office. I know I shouldn't feel this way, that all writing is valid writing, and that if I'm inspired to say it there's a reason, but if I'm not seriously working on a current WIP or my poetry, I feel like those 500 words don't count.

How do you give yourself permission to simply write, knowing that what you are writing is nothing you ever want to share? I didn't used to have this guilt: as a teen, I journaled sporadically. Admittedly, I also went back and edited my journals in my youth, thinking even then that "someday I might be a famous writer and someone might want to publish my diary". Clearly posthumous publications of private material, such as the writings of Sylvia Plath and Anne Frank, made an impression on my young mind.

Sigh. I love to write, I need to write, so why must I always worry about my "projects"? Why can't I just write for the sake of saying the words?

No comments:

Post a Comment