For most writers the words come naturally. The love for writing began because it felt good to write. It is not hard labor to record thoughts and hit keys. Our minds are usually overflowing with ideas, scenarios and half-thoughts that need to come out or we feel like a balloon with too much air, ready to burst.
We tap away at our computers, laptops and mobile devices. Some even scribbling in journals, steno pads and spiral notebooks. The words come and spill over one another in a hurry.
The work of a writer is not getting the words out. It is putting them in the right order and allowing them to create a voice. A distinctive cadence that will be recognized as yours alone. If we work too hard and too carefully on the words, they begin to lose life and become stilted and cardboard. But we can’t just spill them out and let them land any old way either.
Our work and our pleasure is in the playing with the words. arranging, rearranging. reading aloud, letting them sit for a week and picking them up again with fresh eyes and ears. Do we hear ourselves? We try to judge our own words with an unbiased eye. Like turning your head and then looking quickly in the mirror to “catch yourself by surprise”. It can’t be done.
My written words are my babies. I birthed them, dressed them and arranged them. I grow attached to them. This is the dangerous part, we are told. We must be willing to “kill our little darlings”. Not grow too involved with a sweet sentence or precious paragraph. How do we do that?
This is being written after a day of writing in other areas and the words have tumbled out with little forethought or plan. Because writing begets writing. The more you write, the more you can write.