Another Monday quel FABULOSO

Is it just me, or does today already completely aggravate? Is it just a Monday writers thing???

Ah, Julie-the-Writer (see sidebar for her site) says it all:

I was reminded this weekend why I never took a creative writing class and never will. It would kill me. I was at a conference and during two workshop sessions the participants were required (required!) to engage in a writing exercise. The words “writing exercise” evoke panic in my heart. Immediately my brain freezes, my hand shakes, and I am irreversibly damaged by physical implosion. I cannot – I will not – write on demand. I resent being asked. It’s too personal. How many young people – real writers – feel that way? “How dare you force me to reveal myself to complete strangers? I’m not going to write in your presence. I’m not going to show you what that looks like.”
Maybe the more writing classes you take, the more discipline you develop, but I can’t conjure up my muse at will. I wouldn’t want to. She’s an evil creature and her breath stinks. Oh I could probably whip out a few meaningless paragraphs (like these two) and call it creative writing. But it’s not. It has no link to the creative synergy between body, mind, and soul. I think real writing comes from a deep, dark labyrinthe inside you and you don’t enter the maze unless you’re prepared to risk getting lost. For all eternity. Assuming a person can navigate blind alleys and reach a pool of understanding in the next twenty designated minutes is absurd. It makes me wonder how many real writers we turn off in school by forcing them to write between the hours of nine thirty-six and ten forty-two. How many young people are writing in stealth as a true form of self expression? A lot, I tell you. Oh how I wish they had writing groups who would nurture and share that passion, that love, that bliss. Young writers groups – this is my newest crusade.

Here’s to nurturing, when the writing process is SUCKING DOWN YOUR VERY SOUL.
Or something like that.

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