crashing trees

I've often felt that writers have to be passionate, feeling people. It seems reasonable. How can we possibly manage to communicate to our readership a created product if we have no ability to feel it for ourselves? It's the power of language, and when I write a scene I can taste and touch, I want to cry because there's something magical there. It becomes alive. It's not often that I reach that place on a first shot, but that's the magic of editing. (Can you tell I'm trying to pump myself up for the hours of editing I have before me?)

Long ago, a writing instructor told me that writers have to be simultaneously the most humble and the most egotistical people on the block. Having spent over two years on one major project, I can wholeheartedly agree with that. During the production of new material, I tell myself I am the most amazing writer to ever grace the planet and that the world is lucky for my immense contributions to literature. When I'm editing I tell myself that I have to much further to go, and I'll never make it to the greats and possibly never even make it to published status. I probably sit in between those two. A Pulitzer may be out of reach, but I do hope to see my work in print one day.

I've been trying to write for three to four hours Monday through Friday. It's been difficult and trying. One, I'm not used to writing in such frequent intervals. When I was working full-time, writing was a rare treat. It was also the occasional necessity, as I've known for a long time that if I keep ideas and sentences crammed in me for too long, I become bitter, cranky, and stressed. An amazing release comes over me when I have a good writing session, and I think it's why I've never really felt the need for mind-altering substances. The release of my imagination brings enough of a rush to fulfill me. The first day I sat down to write, I cranked out 3500 words in one sitting. Previous to this, if I managed to get 1000 words in a day, I was thrilled. The writing was good, the story surprised me with where it went, and a character that I adore showed development that intrigues me. A previous antagonist entered the scene, and I'm not quite sure whether he's back to stir up more trouble or if he's reformed his ways. It was thrilling. However, after this session, it was almost as though my hands didn't want to 'fess up anything else. That was more writing than I usually manage in a week, and sitting down the next day was rough. I pushed out 1700 words, and then switched to editing. The third day, I sat down to write, and a huge thunderstorm slammed the small city to which I just moved. I hadn't seen a storm like this before, though I hear they're common to the midwest. A full-grown tree crashed down across the street, branches fell into my yard as though it was going out of style, the streetlamps came on because it was too dark to see across the street. I did not get much writing done that day, which goes to show, writing is a long and hard process, and you have to keep pushing yourself.