Some days I write for an hour and crank out three pages, some days after three hours I only have a paragraph. And, it’s not a particularly good paragraph. It seems futile.
Oddly, some days I paint for an hour, and I feel great about myself, all confident, then I step back and it’s a giant bologna peony. Other days I spend an hour on a croquet ball and it’s still wrong.
I like the painting better, somehow. I think it’s the giant easel and the smock: there’s a prop and a costume to make me feel like I know what I am doing even if the result is awful.
I need a writer getup. An Underwood typewriter? A big mug of bourbon? What are a writer’s props and costumes?
One response to “Rewriting the Novel: the Accoutrements”
Typewriter, attic, collection of dirty mugs, and deep sense of despair?