Slice 228 of 365

My dad and I spend a lot of time writing, and our methods couldn’t be more different. If we think of the story as a piece of clay, then my dad is the type of sculptor who works completely by feel. He plans nothing and only crafts things as he thinks of them. On the other hand, I spend my time making a map and planning out exactly what my vase will look like in the end. I try to anticipate every move my hand will need to make in order to have my vase look how I want it to in the end. And during all the sweating and anxiety of ensuring that every possible scenario is thought through, my dad is over at his station, humming and having a great time messing around with his clay. I sigh and get back to work, trying to ignore the petulant sculptor having too much fun with his vase.

I tell my dad a lot that he should spend more time planning out his writing (or at least going back afterwards and making changes based on the overall – sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees). The truth is though that I’m insanely jealous of his process, because it’s not something I could imagine doing successfully. I’ve written stories in the way that he does, and they’ve always turned out awful. The way my dad writes is to let his heart and his intuition lead him around by the hand. I simply don’t trust mine enough to write in that way, and so it goes. My process is mechanical, and his is emotional. If only we could both tap into both.

But for God’s sake, Pops, find an editor you trust and listen to them. πŸ˜‰

Until tomorrow…

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