It's in the Fingers, Not the Mind: Making the Clackity Noise
I’ve learned that my job is to just sit down and start making the clackity noise. If I make the clackity noise long enough every day, the “writing” seems to take care of itself. On the other hand, if there’s no clackity noise, no writing. No little stories. The stories may be in there, alongside God knows what else, but there’s no way to know. You must make the noise.
Merlin Mann, God love him, nails it. If I were to post here on this blog about how much I wanted to write something more meaningful and then list the terrible excuses I have for not doing something other than Twitter and Facebook and Buzz and all that other impertinent bullshit, it would be called what it deserves to be called: whiny, self-absorbed, tortured soul jerkoffery.
So maybe Merlin's right. Maybe obsessiong about writing and planning and searching deep within David Foster Wallace to find literary inspiration isn't the point. Maybe worrying that I might sound too much like John Gruber or Jason Kottke and lamenting the struggle to find my own voice is just a bunch of chaff, a self-indulgent parade of happy horseshit.
Maybe it's as simple as this: stop whining and write. Write, as Merlin says, until a story falls out. Write until you hit upon something sad or funny or poignant or whatever.
Write until you're not thinking about writing, but actually writing.
Thanks, Merlin.

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