Write, write, write. I want to write. I do, I do, I do. And yet, here I am, writing about writing again – writing about writer’s block again.
I agree with Yoda on this one: “Do, or do not. There is no try.” Either you’re writing or you’re not. Maybe what you’re writing is garbage – but you’re doing it. How can you be a writer if you do not write? In order to be something, there is nothing to do but the thing itself.
So here I am, in this coffee shop, sipping my raspberry truffle latte with the standard little design in the foam, writing. I’m writing about the same damn thing I always write about, but I’m doing it. I’m writing.
No matter that I am currently perfectly embodying the writer stereotype. I’m a white person in a suburban coffeeshop wearing a thrift-store sweater, leggings, and riding boots, and typing on a Macbook. I’m a twenty-first century Hemingway – except that I am not nearly as prolific, nor do I have any creativity or life experience at all. Creativity and research can adequately substitute for life experience when it comes to writing. Unfortunately for me, I am not creative, and none of my life experiences would make for a good story, really.
They say to write what you know. They say to write the book that you long to read that hasn’t been written yet. I’ve read hundreds, maybe thousands, of books – good, bad, mediocre (which is somehow worse than bad), long, short, by authors of a multitude of races and ethnicities and backgrounds, etc., etc. I don’t know what the book I long to read is. I’m trying to soak up as much literature as I can, currently. Also, I don’t know if I even want to write a book, necessarily.
But I want to write. And here I am, doing the thing. What else is there to do but the thing?