Jenna's thoughts on writing

my sister wrote this, and I think it's awesome. It's just how I feel about writing. I wish I could write like her.

SO

This is how it goes:

I gather and hoard ideas like a little gerbil for weeks. I scribble down what I think are quirky and funny and sometimes even brilliant little tidbits that come to me while walking down the street, or driving, or sitting on my front porch (basically the most inconvenient times to have a pen and paper on hand).

And on these scraps of paper (half of which I lose somewhere along the way, and then find again in my couch, in my dirty laundy, under my gas pedal, etc.) I feel I have the deep, messy innards of a piece of fiction. I just need to perform some kind of small surgery, stitch some words together--just a few strings of words, I tell myself--to make this into a beautiful, wonderful piece of writing.

It will convey my most deep, profound views on life, love, loss, etc. etc. etc. This will be the story I was meant to write; this story will change me; this story will change others. (Oh Jenna, you poor, poor thing).

Then. It is time.

I sit down at my desk and boot up my computer. At first I am excited and overjoyed to be embarking on what I know will be the best thing I have ever written. I am just bubbling over with excitement.

And then.......not much later I am staring at my computer in loathing. Oh you evil machine. How I hate you and the vast whiteness of your word processor.

An hour, maybe two later I get about 3 paragraphs down. And I realize all of my brilliant ideas and witty dialogue and heart-wrenching scenes could be the script of a Lifetime Original movie. It seems I have performed the surgery with a giant, electric carving knife. The kind my dad uses to butcher the Thanksgiving turkey every year.

I erase, try again. Erase, try again.

I make some coffee. I play with my cat. I go in my closet and try to put together new outfits out of old clothing. Then I want to go shopping. I'm broke, so I reluctantly go back to the computer.

THEN--I have a burst of inspiration.

I write it down.

Terrible, I tell myself. God-awful.

Erase.

I do this about a billion times before I finally will myself (practically have to blindfold myself) to write pages and pages of words without going back and reading and analyzing the hell out them.

It's like an abusive relationship. I hate it, I want out....and yet....I keep going back for more every time....

Eventually I end up with a first draft of something. It's not life-altering. It's usually pretty terrible. But it's something. And I can deal with something.

As much as I complain about my advanced reporting class and news writing in general, there is something to be said about taking a bunch of facts, following the recipe down to the teaspon, sprinkling in some interview quotes and throwing it onto a paper plate, popping it into the microwave and serving with plastic utensils. And all in a cold, calculated way. Sometimes it's a relief.

Fiction writing is like spending hours and hours (AND HOURS) in the kitchen mixing this and that and sticking a finger in for a taste, deciding it needs a little more of this, a little more of that, and then placing it in the oven for a few hours to marinate. You take it out, decide next time to add a little more of this, a little less of that. Then the next day you try it again, and it's a little bit tastier. And so it goes, until you've got the dish you've been wanting to make for quite some time.

(P.S. I'm still in the don't-go-back-and-read-a-damn-word-you've-written-or-else-you'll-want-to-pluck-your-eyelashes-out-one-by-one stage of the story I am currently working on).

P.P.S. It is nearly 2 AM and I am in the ILC and I am a little bit delirious. Good job if you made it all the way through this one.