Writing is War

I think of myself as a relative pacifist. I’m strongly in favor of approaching almost every situation with an eye toward non-confrontation…

… except for writing. When faced with my laptop and that blinking cursor on a blank page, I morph into a maniacal GI Jane bent on world domination and ready to burn this mother to the ground to get it done. If rage-writing is a thing, it’s my thing. Some people talk about writing from a place of eerie calm – like it’s a sort of zen process in a place where elfin muses frolic around a whispering fountain at the center of a combed-sand rock garden.

I do not have a zen garden.

I have a loud, in-your-face, full on Bruce Willis action movie of a process, and if I don’t have a rage hangover by the time I’m finished writing for the day it probably means nothing really brilliant came out. A great writing day means I spent most of it cage fighting my muse until she tapped out in submission covered in blood and various effluvia from the pair of us. Not unlike childbirth, giving life to a story is a loud, messy, mortifying process that strips away all ego and leaves you fighting for your life in the far, dark reaches of your primitive lizard brain.

It’s a helluva drug and I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.