I want to be the kind of writer who takes joy in the process and approaches the day's writing as Play. The Julia Cameron Artist's Way writer who pampers my Artist-Child Within by taking myself on solo dates to museums and collecting pretty stones and making collages of exotic travel destinations and setting up altars to my Dreams and decorating my work space with objects that bring me happiness.
(For the record I have done all of those things.)
And it makes sense on some level that treating your work as play can quiet the editorial voice in your head and counteract your innate perfectionism,
the perfectionism that ends with you writing and rewriting the same sentence over and over, treading water in the same scene for weeks, unable to move on because it's not RIGHT and what if you can't finish this revision and what if you can't write anymore period and who cares anyway, and
what is the point of this story again?
But all of this nonsense was leading me into the same dead end place that it's always led me. Exhaustion. Crankiness. Self-pity. Plus, it's boring.
So, after a while, I realize again what I always realize, which is that I write because that is what I do and sometimes thinking about it as Play (and palm tree collages and glossy stones and coconut scented candles in the office) is just not going to cut it.
No. Some days it is a battle. It is a War of Art. It is you sitting down for your day's work. No excuses. No whining. No fiddling or procrastinating. No striving toward perfection.
And not getting up until the work is done.
(For the record: I have reworked 20 pages of my manuscript this week. And today I will rework 5 more.)