I'm constantly writing scenes in my head but most of the time they do not hit the paper with the clarity or ease that I think upon them. Oh but this day was different. As I said I was in the zone, recreating a happening from my past. And it was all spilling forth in a magic like fashion. Adjective, nouns, witty phrases that I knew would hit their mark. I was in the zone.
The scene dealt with the first time I got fired from the feedstore. It happened on an unseasonable stormy, rain-filled afternoon in August of 1991. So complete in the zone was I that it might as well have happened the day before.
Have I mentioned I was in the zone?
I felt it. The cool air emitting from the storm clouds.
I heard the rumble of thunder.
I smelled the rain, felt the wet drops on my face.
So imagine my surprise when I wrapped up the chapter and went outside to discover it was 95 degrees and there wasn't a cloud in sight up in the blue sky. I'd gotten so involved in my own writing I actually felt both surprised and disappointed that it was a bright sun shiny day.
Days, feeling like that are when it is fun to be a writer. When the words, the story and the turn of phrases come easily. I long for days like that when I can actually believe Hemingway, King, McEwen, Sedaris, Evanovich (pick any other successful writer you want) ain't got nothing on me.
But guess what it's not those days that make you a writer. Being in the zone is nice, it's easy, and it's fun. But those days are rare and a writer must write everyday.
A writer keeps their ass in the chair, when the god lines arrive less frequently than a rational thought from Lindsay Lohan. A writer keeps fighting, battling to create every paragraph reads like shit. a writer keeps writing until they outlast, overcome, and persevere against a finicky muse. A writer says piss on the zone, I'm gonna make my word count anyway.
I wanted to post some of my so-called "zone writing" but I have decided the language in that piece is a might dicey for the blog , so instead here is a brief section from much earlier in the book.
Some customers came in, purchased their items and left, but many lingered. Every bit as much hangout as place of business, Pearl's was the redneck equivalent of Starbucks.
However our coffee was the kind of dark, smelly fare that only men would drink, and I'm pretty sure they only drank it to prove the potency of their testosterone.
I'm talking about the kind of coffee that makes a person growl after every swallow. The kind of coffee that grows gills when left on overnight. Or sprouts legs over a long weekend. The kind of coffee that Darwin loves, and theologians fear.
Never mind putting hair on your chest, the feedstore java put hair on your tongue.
I wasn't tough enough to actually swallow the brew, but on occasion I would pour myself a mug and stand around trying to act manly.