I can just imagine the hits I’m going to get with a title like this. For the uninitiated who just got here through a Google search that pulled up a bewildering result, Hi: I’m Amy, I write fiction, and this post will have nothing to do with kinky porn or medical issues.
(You really wouldn’t believe what I get off Google searches. Apparently there are many health issues involving purple patches in various areas. I hope to avoid them all. )
Anyway. The above-mentioned title is actually a shortened version of a mantra in my all-time favorite thread on my all-time favorite writing forum: “I am allowed to write utter poo.” I’ve seen, said, and thought about it often enough– but because I am a finicky writer, I have rarely applied it to myself. My inner editor and I are on good terms; she horns in every four words or so, and I let her do whatever she wants. Because of this my first drafts generally have a little more polish that they would otherwise… and they take a hell of a lot longer than they would otherwise.
Inner Editor is a spoilt thing, very used to getting her way. I like to picture her as a sexy-librarian type –you know, dark-rim, square frame glasses, long hair in a messy bun, a few too many teeth but big sultry eyelashes– but I expect she’s somewhat more like Brunhilde. She gets what she wants. I feed her coffee and pistachios and every other sentence I write, even when I know I’m not done with it yet.
She doesn’t like Write or Die very much. It turns her into a sulking 9 year old.
I don’t think she likes this WIP very much, either. I replied to a comment in my last post yesterday, saying that I do my best work on this UF when I’m not thinking, and while I was getting my morning Wrtie or Die word count in at 6 am today, I realized how true this is. The less I let myself pause, consider, ponder, and edit, the better this book is turning out.
I worried about it for a moment, and then realized something else: I have revised two novels now with fair success. I’ve tried different methods, and have more or less settled on what works for me.
I can, in all likelihood, fix just about anything I screw up in this draft. Not a year ago, I don’t think I could have said this. It feels pretty damn good. It feels like progress.
So hell with you, Inner Editor. I am allowed to write utter poo.