Feasting on Wendingo Flesh…

Which, for those inclined towards writing and don’t know what that means… go here.  So, I’ve made comment before about how I periodically drink some of Chuck Wendig’s writerly Kool-Aid (shut up, it’s Grape, and Grape is awesome!)  I don’t always go hang around his water cooler, but when I do, I usually find something that strikes me (like a shotgun shell against a zombie, or a sucker punch to the gut)… and makes me want to crawl into a corner and weep on my notepads as I scribble word-shaped blobs of ink onto them.

This recent post was no exception, and when combined with my other admission from a recent post, it really did a number on me.

Some posts (like the one I linked to above) can apply to more than just writing, of coursem so I encourage you to check it out. For those writerly inclined among you, though, here’s a taste:

This is the act of forging something out of nothing. It demands sacrifice. It’s you carving off parts of yourself to a future without promises, you spilling power and grief and embracing chaos and uncertainty all in the hopes of trying to make sense of this thing you do in the sheer bloody-minded chance that something you write will finally matter but the trick is, it all matters, because writing is how we connect with ourselves and the world beyond our margins. Writing is how we tether ourselves to god, a god in a narrative world that is, of course, us.

You’re the Muse that inspires you. You’re the god to which you sacrifice. You’re the battering ram made of unholy fire that tears down Writer’s Block. You’re the knife that cuts the arm off, you’re the boulder that must be pulverized, you’re the devil in the details.

*wheeze* Excuse me *cough* while I do some writing.

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