I've been distracted from blogging by my interest and struggles in other forms of writing. Three weeks ago, I started a local writing group, the San Carlos Scribblers, with minimal expectations and a faint hope that it might inspire me to write more regularly, maybe even produce a body of work. You could call a blog a body of work, but I'm thinking of articles, essays, short fiction, maybe even a book project. Interesting how I always refer to a "book project" instead of simply "a book." Adding the word "project" helps hold off friends who demand to know when the book is going to press, while it's still an amorphous wisp of an idea in my head, easily blown away if I expose it too soon.
"It's never too late to be what you could have been." George EliotLast November I managed to get four chapters drafted, no more, after I signed up with NaNoWriMo, the annual November challenge to writers to produce complete 50,000-word short novels. My chapters, deemed too intensely personal, were so cleverly stashed in my laptop that now I can't find them. Never mind, I will try again. And now that there's a writers' group, I won't wait until November.
Something I realized today: I find myself dreading going to the writers' group as though it were a trip to the dentist or the immigration office--until I prepare something to read aloud. Then I can hardly wait. I've been bringing selections from the blog so far (which could be considered cheating) but I do work hard when we have our 30-minute timed writings. I love blogging, and take my posting seriously (you should see how many edits it goes through) and no doubt the blog will help provide material for the other work. The regular practice of writing every day is one of the hardest disciplines I've ever attempted, but when I stick to it, I get an immense satisfaction just from having tried, even if I'm not thrilled with the results.
The group has exceeded all expectations: we continue to have at least five members at every meeting, amazing when you consider that half of them at any given time are away on their boats. This means we're steadily getting fresh blood, an image that brings to mind Just Open a Vein, a collection of essays on writing edited by William Brohaugh. The title refers to writer Red Smith's brief advice: "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and just open a vein."
And since nowadays you might sit down to a computer instead, do try to keep the blood off the keyboard.