Distract from distraction

It helps, when you write, if you (well) write.

For some reason investigating the turbulent history of cat memes doesn’t write a story — I don’t know why, it’s just true.

It’s also true that singing and dancing doesn’t write a story, no matter the tune — again, I’ve no idea why, it’s just the truth.

Writing blog posts, playing this maze and ball game on my phone, watching Netflix doesn’t write a story — none of it! None. I know. I was just as stunned.

Only siting and physically writing will write a story — physical. That’s movement. That’s effort. That’s sweaty fingerpads and achy knuckles — sweaty and achy, like going to the gym. A workout for the hands. Arthritis, possibly.

Only typing or scribing — chiselling, maybe — writes a story. A dictation app that types as you speak also does it (just about) but it still requires full unbridled effort.

Not cleaning. Not working. Not talking on the phone. Not going to the shop. Not listing all the things that can distract you. Next-door’s dog. The madman who screams profanities. A biscuit. None of these things write stories and I kind’a wish they did. I do a lot of them and I’d have a lot of stories written.

I got distracted to write this post and I got distracted whilst writing it — in fact, it was the act of distraction that got all this distraction started; or fed it. Both probably. One of my main characters, at the time, was distracted. Still is, actually. I haven’t got back there.

I don’t mind distraction. It’s never done anything personal to me, unlike curiosity. I’ve had many a good hour with distraction. It’s just that I wish it wrote stories.

Very enjoyable but no novel.

Writers write stories, so write!

This means you too, Tomos.