There’s a reason it’s called a deadline; you die if you miss it. And for someone who chooses to write for recreation, and hopefully, make a living from it, the deadline is your Master. I’ve set myself a deadline of posting every Saturday, thus far it’s worked. However, this will only be my third post, and I have failed.
My writing process is unrefined, and generally relies on whatever I’m thinking for my writing week, which starts on a Tuesday evening. It kicks off with agonizing over relevance, and “can I articulate this thought into something comprehensive and witty?”
This is invariably followed by a scene from the television series, Black Books. Fran has a new job, but doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be doing. This is how she deals with it:
Whenever I’m at a loss for words, which is often, that scene, with Fran’s desperate typing, pops into my head, and then it’s okay.
And it’s cathartic somehow; that frantic typing, that utter wank on the screen. It helps unclog the passage from the brain to the fingers.