A Week of Sundays

Losing momentum sucks. Big time.

I had to spend most of the last week flat on my back, not writing, not moving forward in any way.


Probably because of the past six weeks, when I stayed up until three a.m. typing and typing. With atrocious posture. And caffeine. And a stunning lack of leafy greens in my diet.

Finally my back said to heck with this and went berserkers on me.

Sneaky jerk.

So, what to do when you’ve got a wasted week with no way to type or scribble or even dictate?

Well, read some good fiction. Pick it apart and chew it up and let it sink deep in your chest.

Read your own story. Pick it apart and chew it up and let it sink deep in your chest.

Visualize the next step, and the one after that, and the one after that.

Dream up dialogues and conflicts and disasters and heroic saves.

Store it all away in that rusty locker at the back of your brain, so that one day, weeks from now, when you’re writing a big scene, all those preconceived inflections and tics and nuances will resurface naturally in the flow of your narration. You won’t even remember where they came from, but your voice will be better for it, and so will your characterization.

That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

We’ll see.

In any case, it’s Sunday again, but I’m done with rest for a good, long while.

I ate my greens, drank my water.

I’m working on my posture.

Now to crank out some story.

And stretch my back, now and then.


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