I had forgotten, you see, how words need to flow from brain to page on a schedule, every day, or you lose it. Writing is like a muscle; I am not the first person to say this, of course, but it’s true. If you don’t flex it, it loses its muscle memory. You need to exercise it to fully get use out of it.
I wrote this morning. And I plan to write again tomorrow. And the next day.
I love writing on a schedule. I think it’s naive to believe in the Romantics’ understanding of genius; even the Romantics didn’t believe in it. Look at any collection of drafts of Wordsworth’s writing, and you’ll see the truth in it. Writing is not gifted to us from on high. Writing is not a gift; it is hard work. It is struggle and pain. Hemingway said to write, one must open a vein and bleed. I don’t know if it’s that dramatic, but yes, it hurts. It’s hard, and it’s not glamorous.
But it’s beautiful. And fun. And I forgot about those two aspects of it.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 