Pout
Bad day today. I screwed up, got justifiably bawled out, and I continue to beat myself up over it long after Eileene has let the matter rest. I don’t really want to talk about it.
But that places me in something of a dilemma, because I don’t seem able to think about anything else. The daily entry has to go out, and the only subject on my mind is one I’m embarrassed to share, and which is unhealthy to fixate on, anyway. What to do?
The writers’ code, which is nebulously defined because I just made it up, using some beliefs widespread among writers, holds that everything should be put down on paper. Web page. Whatever. Everything is grist for the mill, and the writing takes priority over everything else, except perhaps urgent matters of literal life-and-death, and even those are debatable. That means the writing takes priority over ego, and over correcting neuroses. The writers’ code holds that there are no off-limit topics, and the stronger you feel about one, the more firmly that demonstrates something worthy of being read.
Maybe. That’s probably true of fiction in some second- or third-hand fashion, and the writers’ code draws pretty heavily on advice for writing fiction, because most of the advice is geared toward novelist wannabes. (Maybe non-fiction writers have less trouble getting started. I dunno.) Not everything is worth reading, but anything could be taken as inspiration for something worthwhile.
Even if true in some second- or third-hand fashion, however, sometimes “grist for the mill” takes some heavy grinding before becoming useful. This particular bad day isn’t there yet. If nothing else, I suppose, one can write about not writing. Like a stairmaster, it gets old fast, but even that can help keep people in shape for tomorrow, when something better comes along.
Tomorrow is always where the best ideas live, anyway.