Daily Word Count: 4,048
Cumulative Words Written: 27,936
Total Words Discarded: 4,700
Total Chapters Drafted: 11
Time Spent Writing Today: 6 hours
Clueless, circular paragraphs. Bewildering plot lines. A character’s inexplicable appearance. Pages and pages of words. Maybe there’s a point somewhere, but I don’t yet know what it is.
A first draft often feels like running with bullshit.
I don’t outline. When I sit in front of my screen, and I don’t WHAT may fly from my fingers. The characters decide, and one is being pretty dang stubborn right now. No surprise. She’s been adept at putting up walls her whole life. So to escape a few more hours running with bullshit, I stepped into the cool night air, walked through Messejana square by starlight, paid my 5 Euro, and took a seat in the stands.
At an actual bullfight.
At almost midnight. With teenagers as bullfighters and young bulls chasing them around the ring.
DISCLAIMER:
NO BULLS DIED IN THE MAKING OF THIS POST.
OR AT THE BULLFIGHT.
Children, babies, the elderly, A DJ SPINNING TUNES, one side of the ring was packed near midnight. Speakers boomed club music. Lean young men in blousy white shirts, black knickers, and vivid sashes raced around the ring. One charged the bull and back-flipped over it to avoid being gored. Another vaulted over an angry bull with a pole. Still another jumped the bull like a hurdle at the track.
I lingered for an hour, equal parts dazzled by the gymnastic abilities on display and gutted for the bulls. One spunky black bull broke its own horn chasing the fighters into their protective box. Another time, he charged into the medical area behind the wall. I sat there watching centuries of cultural history unfold and wondered why people fought bulls in the first place. Really, what’s the point?
Sometimes, I wonder the same about my writing:
WHAT’S THE POINT?
We have too many books, too much to stream, constant news, too many podcasts, unlimited sports, ceaseless distraction in our pockets and at our fingertips. Is thinking I’ll ever make a book that resonates far-and-wide the real running with bullshit?
In the end, it doesn’t matter. Self-defeating thoughts are the real bullshit.
So I return to my manuscript. I flex my fingers. A character taps me on the shoulder. And I begin to transcribe what she says.
To follow my residency at Buinho Creative Hub from the beginning, CLICK HERE and read forward.
4 Comments
Yep. Running with bullshit is decidedly different than running from bullshit. Y’all be on the right track, methinks.
I hope so. It’s a mess to get in. ?
I think I like the idea of a bullfight more than I’d enjoy the real thing, but now I know someone who has experienced the “real deal.” There is entirely too much written and spoken information “out there” vying for our attention, but that should never stop a writer from sharing what comes from their heart. Keep going! 🙂
This wasn’t the “real deal” either. It was acrobatics with the bull. It reminded me of a rodeo, except they back-flipped over the charging bull or pole-vaulted over it instead of riding it.
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