My Writing

A friend had sent me an article---a piece on motivational writing---it contained eleven secrets, all of which are worth knowing. The pair that inspired me the most on the list was number two, 'decide to be a professional' and number seven, 'suit up.'  The first sounds like a no brainer, but mentally a writer is scattered all over building characters, settings, plot twists and dialogue that contemplating the level of professionalism seems minor, even trivial in comparison.  But when I took the time to read the simple paragraph it was like experiencing this elusive "aha moment" Oprah constantly interjects in her vocabulary. To add a cliché, a light bulb went off, and I realized that as much time I was spending theorizing the plight of my beloved characters I was heading nowhere.  I had to change my mind; rewire my brain and think like a professional.  Writing had to be less of a hobby and more like a 9 to 5; an eight hour shift if I want to be published before my thirties.  This meant no more excuses, no more wasting time and putting writing off like I had done so many times before. 

Once I had set my mind the correlation to number seven, 'suiting up' became the power tool needed to make my professionalism tangible.  The article called for a uniform to don everyday while writing.  This would motivate the brain as well as give my day a change of feels since I hardly get out much these days; essentially I had to trick my mind to believe that 'writers block' was not a block at all when I had my suit of armor on. The problem was I had no idea what the ideal 'suit' would be for me.  Did I want to go all out and dress as if I'm heading to a coffee shop?  Did I want to dress more formally?  Should I add heels, stockings, should I even go as far as wearing a bra all day at home?  None of these appealed to my visceral nature, so I found myself standing in the middle of my room looking around, though not really comprehending anything I was seeing.  Then, as if by chance, a lipstick I had placed on top of my dresser and left there for weeks like it was an afterthought of a previously unfinished notion caught my eye.  A deep, passionate red smiled seductively at me, and I, as if I had no will of my own, was beckoned like a royal subject of a charming king in parallel universe.

I let this king kiss my lips and paint them with his fiery affection knowing I had found the perfect ammunition: A literary war to be fought in a blood red smirk, and I a Helen of Troy would transform into a Joan of Arc and stand at the front of the battle lines complete and ready with a mighty pen and stationary at hand.  No more excuses, no more wasted time.
 A link to the article I mention if anyone is interested in reading:http://www.copyblogger.com/prolific-content-creation/