The amazing, erudite, and somewhat scatalogical Chuck Wendig provided my wake up call for the morning, subtly titled Murdering Unicorns: Ending the Myths that Poison the Writer’s Life. I thought I’d share:
Whatever asshole said that thing about work (or genius) being 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration should probably be punched in the face for giving advice that rhymes because, pshhh, c’mon. Rhyming? Really? Still, he’s right. You want to write a book, then learn that the prevailing feeling is one of frustration. In writing a novel you will feel wayward and weird just as often as you feel energized and excited. Your book does not thrive on inspiration. Your book is born only of work.
Your book thrives on your ass finishing the job.
Stop chasing that dragon.
You do not work for the Muse. She works for you. Chain her to the pole and make her dance.
The rest of this post is just as relevant, brilliant, and difficult to accept. I like my crutches, dammit. When whining and procrastination are made Olympic events, I’ll show you all.
<cue maniacal laughter, ending in hiccups>
In the meantime, here’s a vid that I sincerely hope isn’t relevant today:
In my opinion, that man could use some cookies . . . chocolate cookies.
Earful of Cider 