Stephen King’s advice whenever anyone asks him what it takes to be a writer is to JUST WRITE. Write consistently, write all the time. Write. Write. Write. Doesn’t mean you’ll reach the level Mr. King reached, but if you don’t write, you’ll never know.

I AM a writer. When I sit down and take a stab at putting words to the page, I’m a writer. (I’ve actually written a total of ONE book, published.) I love to edit. (I’ll admit here: I do edit spelling and punctuation. The ideas though, no planning and very little forethought this time around.) I also love to “dump.” (That’s writing whatever comes and leaving it be. See: this blog so far.)

This week’s writing brings my attempt at being consistent in writing weekly dumps to WEEK FOUR. As in, I’ve posted something four weeks IN A ROW. I aimed for Wednesday as my weekly writing day. Two of those Wednesdays landed on holidays. And yesterday I was driving home from a visit, and the thought didn’t occur to me until it was too late to write (my brain was mush). And, here we are.

There were ideas during the past week of what I might write about that never really stuck. I’d like to delve into fiction, make up a story. I used to be really prolific as a teenager, writing multi-character tales in spiral notebook after spiral notebook about a tough female police detective and the two men who vied for her affections while she solved complex crimes.

I also heard a really good line in someone else’s book about tree seeds and the need for fire to allow those seeds to sprout and make new seeds by breaking down the protective hulls, and how often humans have to go through the fire (breakdown) in order to grow stronger (heal), and I thought I could make that into something deep and meaningful (I still could).

In the end, I decided to just write about writing. By actually writing. I’ve written many poems, which were all written during painfully emotional periods of my life. I have tried to write poems during times of joy, but it never conveys my feelings in quite the same way as sorrow and despair do.

Here is a poem I wrote after my sister took her life:

My feelings of sorrow. Her life cut short.

That’s part of what it takes to be a writer, I think. Being able to dig in to the real feelings and emotions and being willing to share that honesty, even when it hurts. Want to write a love story? Remember all the truths of your feelings and emotions in the triumphs and challenges of being in a relationship. Want to write a novel about a tough female police detective? Watch a LOT of television crime dramas.

Oh, watching a show (movie, television, shorts on YouTube, whatever) and writing. Last night husband and I watched an episode of a show with an idea that a planet is hiding inside of a space storm. What a fantastic idea for a story!! Except that it’s been done, and I’d want it to be original and fresh. Which it can be if I wait a while and carve out a plot in which this idea has a great story. Why would a planet need to hide in a manufactured space storm?

Stuff like that, ideas for stories and poems, is all around us. In real life and in movies that were already produced.

I’m running out of steam and words and ideas. For now. Plus, I want to eat lunch. And since I’m not holding these and editing them, now seems as good a time as any to wrap it up.

Let me mention those “likes” pages from last week’s post before I go: Fox Reviews Rock, Dirty SciFi Buddha, Coach Esther, The Autodidact Professor, and Maia. Each of these pages is unique. Maia hasn’t posted anything new in a while, but they keep liking my stuff. Perhaps something will inspire new works.

Thanks for stopping by.