“Don’t get it right; just get it written” is a sentiment that I have championed for ages, and yet, deep down, I’ve never been able to commit to it myself. This is poor policy, I know, and is coming back to get me.
I’ve pseudo-transformed my week-long visit to Colorado Springs into a mini writing workshop i.e. “I only know one person here and should give her enough space that she doesn’t kick me out to sleep in the hall”. Besides, my creative writing class this semester is, more likely than not, going to be demanding. It is in my nature to at least attempt to rise to the challenge.
Thus far, these attempts have left me sentencing five or six starters to my “In Progress” folder, which is a deviously titled album that really contains a short story graveyard. It’s where characters and settings go to die when I can’t think of anything else to do with them, and one day, I’m sure, they’ll all rise up as story zombies to eat my internal organs. Or at least their personal metaphors (heart of ice, balloon for a head…).
I will try to take the day in this cute little coffee shop to actually finish a short story. It’ll probably be the first one I’ve completed in six months. And then I will celebrate by writing another, because I’m sure to hate the first.
But maybe that’s not important. Don’t get it right; get it written.
