In three days, I wrote close to 38,000 words.
In three days, I navigated the white water of words pouring forth at a pace that was near manic.
In three days, I became exhausted (and it didn’t help that I wasn’t sleeping well for reasons unrelated).
In three days, my writer’s boat capsized, and I felt I was drowning in the jumbled web of words that spilled out over 72 hours.
It took three days for me to release the pressure of the book that had built up inside me over months. The dam had burst, and after three days, the water shifted from a torrent to a lull.
I found myself looking around, unsure of what to do and where to begin anew. I considered tossing it all aside, walking away, shutting down. I questioned my worth, and the worth of my work and words. And then I reached out to a friend.
In three days, I manically wrote (for better and worse), and then I stopped. In three minutes my friend helped to refocus the most important element of any writing, of my writing: truth.
It took three days for me to run, fall, scrape my knee, and stand up again. And it took a friend to help treat the wound, so that I could walk forward.
I now have three days left of my writing escape at my friends’ house, and in three days I will write from a place of calm, of confidence, and of focused truth.
The word count doesn’t matter. It’s a false trophy in the writing world. What matters is the words themselves… and the energy behind them.
Every writing is a journey of discovery, even when you’re writing about something you know intimately. Because every piece of writing is a creation. It’s the process of giving birth to something that will have a life of its own. A long life, if you’re lucky.
I went through three days of labor, only to find that the true birthing will be in nurturing this new work into creation, slowly, calmly, and peacefully… for however many days to come
It’s never boring, being a writer. At least there’s that. 🙂