Creativity and Counting

Yesterday I finally managed to write over 1500 words in one day. It’s the first time in a few weeks, but it proved as easy normal and I watched the number tick up in the bottom of the scrivener document. Writing for me, here and now, is about time. The more time I choose to spend on discovering the story, the faster and stronger I go. I have had a lot of inhibiting though processes for writing in the past.

I used to say writing was all about numbers and there was no such thing as quality when writing a rough draft.

More recently I decided that effort and inspiration together were the only way for me to write a good story.

Both those ideas are right to a very small degree, but notice how far I used to take them.

Finally I remember to apply a principle of moderation to my thinking.

So counting words isn’t bad or wrong. It’s just not everything, only a measuring stick for time spent.

Effort isn’t all important if I can relax and write instead. If I focus too much I get locked up in my own mind. Not helpful.

I still need to put forth effort, time, practice. There is no single way to write effectively. Though in the past I saw my approach in a fanatical light. I saw anyone who did not practice my way as wrong. But few people have the opportunity to practice the way I do now. I write freelance, and I write for myself. I’m working on controlling my efforts without losing the spontaneity I used to have.

I’ve moved my workstation from a rocking chair to a desk. Maybe that is what shook me loose a little bit. But regardless, I am ready to write, whether its here or elsewhere. Perhaps I’m feeling a bit spiritual at the moment, but its a good feeling.

Hope you can find something similar today, folks.

* * *
Thought for the day: Move on.

Animal of the day: Red Fox
Because cunning can be found in many places, both the expected and unexpected.

Yesterday’s Words:
The teaching assistant of the lab stopped by Yajain’s table and looked over her shoulder. The sink to her right was full of water tinged pink with fluid bled off from the tissue sample that she’d partially spilled earlier. Yajain’s hair was tied back into a single tail. Her hands were occupied with the needle-tipped manipulator she moved under the microscope she stared through at the tissue taken from the brain of a bird of chaos. The teaching assistant hovered back to her other side.

She noticed how he tended to hang around her more than other students. Maybe he liked her? Maybe he had just never seen a ditari student before. Yajain shifted a bit of the brain sample back. Her vision moved along crevasses and spongy remains saturated with black fluid. The bird of chaos produced both fluids used by junkies and commanders alike to see the future and illuminate the past. Yajain had never touched either type, neither the black of chaos found in the brain, nor the white of order found in their eggs and stomachs. The assistant peered down at the sample under the glass beneath the scope.

“Has the black drained yet?” he asked.

“Not yet.” Yajain moved the sample just a little less than half a millimeter under the scope. “But I think I see how it worked.”

“How what worked?”

“The brain.” Yajain never took her eyes from the bulges and crevices of the brain sample. It had retained most of its shape. Only a few places had flattened and deformed from being held between the glass panels. “The black fluid relays signals in the bird’s brain, right?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” the teaching assistant said. “Supposedly the fluid is what enables them to learn so effectively even as they mature.”

“Tiny brains. Smart birds.” Yajain found what she was looking for and smiled. Her view through the scope centered on a pore where black material had welled up in life. A bubble had formed over that tiny well. “That’s it. I found the drain.”

She drew back from the eyepieces of the scope, still smiling. The assistant smiled at her. He didn’t seem so bad. Maybe she should talk to him after class. He looks a little like Mosam. She shook herself mentally. It wasn’t worth thinking that way, she might never see him again, and he would still be a traitor if she did.

The teaching assistant leaned past her and peered through the microscope. “You’ve got it.” He turned to Yajain. “Good job.”

“Thanks.”

“Say, would maybe want to get dinner later?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got plans later.” Her plans? Studying in her room alone with a takeout dish.

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