Today is the Friday before Christmas, and I am not feeling this at all. I don't wanna write today. I don't wanna chase down interviews. I don't wanna work on a revision for a novel that's to go out on submission in January. I don't wanna do anything other than read a little, plan a few meals, maybe buy a gift.
I just don't wanna be a writer today.
This is a problem, because I really and truly don't have a choice. First off, I have to write to eat. It's a simple exchange. Words equal food. Food equals life. Life is good. Second, I have very definite things I want to accomplish over the coming weeks, months and year. I have a little post-it stuck above my computer that admonishes me to write a certain kind of book (dripping with awesomeness) by a certain birthday (forty). Third, and at least for today most importantly, I have editors who are expecting me to hit deadlines ... which takes me back to point one about writing and food.
I never had much use for the art-house approach to writing. I'm a butt-in-chair, grind-it-out kind of guy. When I'm writing fiction, it's 1,000 words a day, every day, seven days a week. And when I'm on deadline, I'm pretty sure my editors don't much care if I feel the urge to don a beret, smoke brown cigarettes and discuss Sartre. They just want the words, greedy monkeys that they are.
No, I'm much more from the brick-layer school of writing. To me, it's a trade. Like any other trade, some days you're feeling it. Some days you're not. But you've got to do it either way because ... well, because the only way to achieve any success as a writer is to actually write. So there it is.
Now I'm off to grind out as many words as my poor fingers can muster ... Wish me luck. And good luck to you, too.