Today is a school snow day and I have my grandson, Zachary. He is six years old and thinks I should be his playmate. We have gone sledding, made snow angels and thrown snowballs. We came in when our hands and feet got too cold to stay out any longer. We spent an hour arranging match box cars and then another hour making a fire station out of a cardboard box. Zachary has many rules about playing with his cars and constructing emergency vehicle stations. I only get told a rule when I break it and there is never any directions for avoiding a broken rule.
Right now I am trying to get in some writing time while Zachary is practicing making letters into words. I have been interrupted by a yellow sun and a giraffe. I don’t know what the giraffe is doing besides marching across grid paper in a straggly uneven line of letters. My estimation of writing is that it should be a solitary endeavor uninterrupted by yellow suns and giraffes. But alas, that is an unrealized dream so to be writer-ly I got on the internet and googled writer’s quotes. My favorites, thus far, are as follows: “The road to hell is paved with adverbs.” Stephen King; “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia” E. L. Doctorow; “Fiction is about stuff that is screwed up.” Nancy Kress; “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.” Douglas Adams “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.” Stephen King. And my number one favorite quote is from the irrepressible Ernest Hemmingway, “The first draft of anything is shit.”
What more needs to be said after Ernest has had his say? Well, except for the serious quote from Henry Miller, which deserves to be tattooed backwards across my forehead so I can read it in the mirror every day; “Writing is its own reward.” We writers tell ourselves that to make us feel better about being unpaid and unrecognized which means, sorry Mr. King, there is no truth inside that lie.
Susan, Kindle Book In the Kitchen Again, Soups, Stews and Casseroles