Mind Dumping

I was thinking to day about writing methods. Since, I seem to have done very little writing in the past week. Of anything. the blog serves as a means of writing something. With the slim hope that will fire up enough anything into myself to make me keep writing something of substance long after I hit the publish button.

Yesterday as I sat drinking a cup of coffee, I scribbled notes, ambiguous, abstract notes of something that has been stirring in my mind for a long time.  I have paper all over the house with scribbles and scrawls, sometimes just a single word, stained napkins with a paragraph or random thought, post it notes stuck to random surfaces….in short my entire house is a notebook full of my scribblings.

Yet very few of those scribbles ever make it into anything concrete. And the purpose of this post? Nothing. I am mind dumping. Writing myself in circles, waiting for lightning to strike.

And wondering if anything more will come after I hit publish……..

the girl on the bus

This latest piece of writing has me all at sea. Firstly, it’s not like other pieces. They evolved slowly, a spark, an idea, a rough plot. But this. This is a solitary character, dictating to me as I type. She talks and I type. There seems to be no plot, as yet. She’s just talking like a random stranger on a bus, telling me snippets of a life. I don’t know where all the pieces fit, or why.  And yet even as she speaks, I feel she is secondary.

I don’t normally write like this. It’s new and strange and I am not at all  sure it will turn out to be anything viable, at least not yet anyway. I tend to be a write by the seat of my pants kind of gal anyway, but usually I at least know the outcome. (the journey tends to  take me by surprise, but not the beginning or the end. )

 I keep typing though, hoping for iilumination, sooner rather than later.

1000 a day or die

I’m still sick. I have been oozing seven shades of mucos and hacking up my left lung for what feels like days now, with no end in sight. And somehow yesterday whilst curled in on myself on the lounge with a hot mug of tea and a book, I was actually inspired. 

I dragged out the laptop and my fingers flew at the speed of a fast snail (which is break neck speed when your head is full of sinus congestion and a thousand tiny red hot hammers pounding away)

But I did it. I wrote 1100 words and the best part is I like them all. I don’t know what they are a part of, or where exactly they fit in, but it’s there, finally, bubbling just beneath the surface breaking free in mini spurts between body wracking spasms.

 I only hope I can finish before I am well, or at least hold onto the cloudiness in my head so the words can free fall until I am done.  If not, I’ll get my small boy to breathe all over me. “Come make mummy sick so she can write…” Now there’s a writing method that warrants some examination.