drafting

I began drafting a new short story the other day. Like all beginnings, it felt exciting. I opened Scrivener, opened a relaxing playlist, and began working. Prior to starting, I made a few notes on an index card (hot pink), and I truly meant to pound out a great amount of words between then and now.

I haven’t.

I did draft that day, and I might have a character or two, though I’m not sure about names and definitely don’t feel all that attached to anyone right now, and whose idea was it to draft a Christmas story in the midst of a Midwestern heat wave? (It was my idea. And honestly? I should have started this project well before any heatwave could have even thought about happening.)

My writing brain might be broken.

It’s a tough thing to admit, when I used to have ideas tumbling over ideas in my head, some of them even scribbled on note cards or in notebooks or in draft folders that fester away in the depths of my Dropbox files. I see it here, where my thoughts are in tiny spurts instead of actual paragraphs. I see it in my journal, where most days I can only muster up the energy and concentration to write a gratitude list. I see it here (again), as I open up my blog instead of the new project folder I started for my Christmas short.

My writing brain might be broken, but my writing muscles definitely are. I don’t remember how to shut off my thoughts and listen to the whispers of characters and, maybe more importantly for the type of writer I am, the flow and rhythm of the words I want to use. Even when I do put together words, they sound choppy and stilted, bullet points masquerading as sentences, dialogue never overheard during an eavesdropped conversation, exposition upon exposition instead of action.

Guilt creeps in if I even think about sitting and staring out the window, if I try to relax my mind enough to hear what’s going on inside. This is the first time I’ve attempted to write since Ryan began working from home. Not to sound icky, but some of the guilt comes from the feeling that he might judge how unproductive a lot of writing actually looks. In the past, it’s been maybe invisible to him, and now it feels bare and exposed, especially since I am so out of practice and so unsure of how the words are even going to make it from the ether to my mind to the page.

I don’t remember it feeling so hard in the past, though I’m sure it did, the way I don’t remember the hardest edges of having little kids around the house. I don’t remember the way I fought exhaustion after a restless night of sleep and a refusal of naps; I remember the fun of refilling the bottomless Diet Coke at the zoo and letting the kids pick more animals to see as we wandered around. Similarly, I don’t remember the drafting process for the stories I’ve written. I remember the back and forth banter of working with Cam and Mandy, the process of determining cover images and front matter quotations.

Now it’s time to build up those unremembered muscles again, to pull the words out from somewhere, even as they hide away in the shadows. I know it’s possible. I’m just not sure how to get started. (OK, I AM aware of how to do it; it’s just easier to ponder existence here instead of sitting down and getting to work.)