The Great Writing Debate: Inspired or Chair?

The Great Debate: (or one of them anyway)

The people who always say “butt in chair” in order to get your stories written are not wrong.

The people who always say “inspiration makes your work shine” in order to write quality stories are not wrong.

Both have good points that I feel we often lose track of, as writers and readers however, here’s a question…

What if writing involved both?

What if, in order to start a story and then finish it, you needed both.

It doesn’t matter what comes first, sometimes you need to put your butt in your chair and write terrible sentences until inspiration bites. Sometimes inspiration bites and then you need to sit your butt in your chair and write.

Either way, in order to keep the writing going, in order to keep the passion flying you need to have a bit of both. At least, if you’re aiming to write something you are proud of and can spend hours and days and weeks upon.

I recently finished a 100, 000 word novel. In large because I stopped dreaming and put my butt in the chair. As passionate as I was about the idea, that initial inspiration that has been sitting around in my head for years, being built and built, I had to sit and write. Sometimes I wrote terribly but sometimes I wrote as if my fingers flamed.

I love writing. I would perish before I ever stopped, but sometimes, it’s tough. It’s a job. Anyone who ever tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something.

However, like any job, if you don’t have the passion for it, you may be passable, you may still be able to do it, but you won’t love it. You won’t breath it, you won’t relish those moments when your fingers do catch fire and you write something you want to share with friends, family and the rest of the world.

Never say that writing needs no passion any more than being an Olympic athlete.

So, go out there, find what inspires you and sit down and write it. Set a timer, go to a cafe, shut out all distractions and write and write. It may start out terrible, even with inspiration or it may fly.

And if you can’t find the inspiration, take that idea you had and sit down and write. Write until blood drips from your forehead and your head spins. What you write may be terrible but it will be words on the page, or maybe what you write will become something that flies.

You will never know until you do it.

A little tidbit from that world I’ve been building and building…

It’s Snakes My Dear, Snakes All the Way Down

The doors announced the woman in red with a swirl of autumn leaves and a gust which whooshed and made the candles flicker. The patrons inside looked up, identified the stranger as a regular possessing the permanent perfume of whiskey and went back to low conversation or solitary supping of food and drink.

Aunt Nancy, standing behind her counter, humming, only her thick dark hair bunched into a bun, visible from behind the counter as she stirred a pot which gave off the scent of cinnamon, plums and a long day of travel. Which, at the Inn of Stormy Nights, created a combination of homey exhaustion, worn, wet socks, dried fruit and a dash of dandelion fluff. She was the owner of this inn in the middle of nowhere and somewhere in between.

“I’m in and out Auntie. Just the usual,” said the woman in red and she flopped with the grace of a wet blanket onto one of the stools at the counter. Aunt Nancy sniffed, tapping long dark fingers on the counter.

“You stink, Red.”

“I’ll stink less if I get my usual and then a bath,” Red replied in quick repartee, well used to how much Aunt Nancy disproved of her doings.

“The marsh? Again?” A frown joined Aunt Nancy’s tapping until a glare from Red had her chuckling and turning to get the woman her shot of whiskey.

“Well, Mori’s an idiot. What else is new?” Red replied, as if calling a colleague an idiot explained away all issues. Aunt Nancy took this in stride, having know Red for many years. Red had gotten stuck in the marsh again and most likely left Mori to deal with their mounts in the stable while she got an early start on marching through the inn’s store of whiskey.

Aunt Nancy set the shot in front of Red and it was gone, downed in a gulp a second later. She was already reaching toward the bottle to fill it up again.

“Did you find you yet?” Aunt Nancy said as she set a second shot down in front of Red. Red nodded her thanks, downed the second shot and nodded toward the door.

“Why do you think he’s out there and I’m in here?” Red wiggled her fingers, indicating for more whiskey. Aunt Nancy tutted as she poured the third.

“Dear, it’s snakes that way. Snakes all the way, sideways and back up. You’ll never be free, even if you do find it.” She crossed her arms and stared directly at Red, only possible with the tall woman sitting.

“I’m getting her back. Even if I have to walk a thousand astral marshes and deal with a million idiots. I will find her.”

Aunt Nancy poured her another shot of whiskey. “That’s why I worry dear. I’ve seen enough in my day to know insanity when it blows in the door.”

Red downed the fourth whiskey shot and asked for another. The dance between the two women continued until the door creaked open again, letting in a whisper of air, every forgotten dream and the tip-toed step of the unfortunate idiot, Mori.

To be continued….

Where Inspiration and Chairs Sit

What is your drive? Is it inspiration first and then doing all the work? Or is it doing the work and letting inspiration come when it may?

Red, Aunt Nancy, her Inn of Stormy Nights and the unfortunate Mori are the property of AR Reynolds and can be seen in the coming weeks as more excerpts of stories are written in preparation for an upcoming podcast series.

Yes, friends, next on the list of challenges to take is a podcast. After all, stories began in the oral form.

Moony