In my endeavor to learn to write well, I’ve fixated on Malcolm Gladwell’s “10,000 hours to expert” theme.
Thus far I calculate I’ve spent 2500 hours on the task. How many words might that be? Four hundred thousand could get me close.
Regardless, the journey has presented numerous obstacles, time, or the lack thereof, being the most egregious. Had I the time, I’d have applied myself tenfold.
Creative energy certainly offers a close second. A writer writes, they say. Well, a slave slaves. A programmer programs, a father fathers, a husband husbands and so it goes. What is left for writing after such a list?
No little distraction includes my infected life’s philosophy. As a self-professed existential Nihilist, what is the point in learning to write well? A rhetorical question. From this perspective there is no valid answer. To forge through is not an option. Around is the only path.
And so around we went. And here we are, 2500 hours complete. Was there nothing learned, gained, accomplished. A few things come to mind:
- Do more with less. Err with too few.
- Passive kills the energy.
- A square block of text is a visual turnoff. It need not be read, its presence on the page cripples the reader.
- Conflict, always. A constant struggle for me.
- Any critique is worth understanding.
Accomplishments? Aside from two early, sophomoric novels, not much more than fragments. But in those fragments, some polish could be detected, some self-satisfaction. Write for yourself and you’ll never disappoint. What starving baker wouldn’t eat their own failed cake?
Future? At this rate the next 2500 hours will take years and years. 10,000? Yeah, right.