Skip to main content

Tick Tock Goes the Clock

Writing. Words. Worlds. Scribbles. Languages. Imaginations.
(This bit is entirely random, you may ignore it if you wish.)

This post is for everyone who says they are too busy to write - I plead guilty - so let me tell you (and myself) that being too busy to write is impossible! All you have to do is carry around a pen or pencil or writing device and paper or a notebook - if you'd rather write in there - then stop somewhere - it can be in the car for all I care - and start scribbling words.

Please don't tell me you walk to school or never sit down for a break from something or that you never ever have 1 minute or less when you are doing absolutely nothing. Because you will get an extremely skeptical, maybe even confuddled - or if I'm really shocked, a conbafflated look.

For those who don't know, confuddled is confused and something else, and conbaffleated is confused, baffled and frustrated all at once.

You can write when you're sitting in the car, you can write during any break you might get - unless it's a 10 second or so break, because then you don't really have time to do much other than take out the writing device and writing surface. But I highly doubt that someone would give you a 10 second break.

Actually I don't know how long it takes to get out a writing surface and device because it will vary, for example it would take longer with a notebook because you have to open it and find a blank page. And a mechanical pencil or pen might take off extra seconds by having to open the cap or press the button thing.

My point being that you can write at any time - unless you only write on the computer, that's a different matter all together. If you have paper and a writing device go ahead and scribble. I can't promise people won't be annoyed - the hazards of writing in front of company is again another topic - but if the person is ok with you writing, then write.

Write. Write. Write. Write. And... Write.

- Colette -

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Bluebird             “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus,” I sang at the top of my lungs.             “Right down Santa Claus Lane!” Preston joined in.             It was the night of Christmas Eve and I was driving with Preston to his parents’ house. We were going to spend the night and exchange gifts in the morning. As we drove through the snow, Preston and I belted out our favorite Christmas carols.             I inhaled deeply, grinning as my favorite smells entered my nose. I could practically taste his mom’s gingerbread and apple pie. The other air freshener filled the car with the sharp scent of pine trees. Christmas was my favorite time of year.             “Here comes Santa Clau...

If You're Like Most People...

If you're like most people, you probably don't hate that phrase as much as I do. This is mainly because I overthink things. It's something I do a lot and you will therefore be seeing a lot of it in my contributions to this blog. Actually, come to think of it, overthinking is something pretty much all of us have in common in the Writing Mafia, so you can just expect it all the time from all of us. You're welcome.  Anyway, back to 'If you're like most people...'. This phrase wouldn't bother me if people actually meant it. But they don't. They don't mean 'If you're like most people...', they mean, 'If you're like most people who are like me... ' Because let me tell you something, most people - as in, the majority of the human population of the planet - are living either under the poverty line or hovering dangerously close to it, have minimal education and don't understand this rant or anyone who says that most hate...

Ostrich short story

She holds her elegant neck high above the masses which she saunters through. Like a diva at a show she flaunts her plumes, casts a wary eye about for rivals, and turns up her nose at her drab brown and cream comrades.  Behold, an animal of distinction and refinement. Here is the ostrich, queen of the winged kingdom. Around her, antelope bow their heads in shame, cringing at their inferiority. Where she steps the grass seems to wither in embarrassment. Even the sun seems reluctant to disgrace her chestnut and ivory feathers. Stop. Look around. Sour musk lines the brisk breeze. She lowers the foot which was held aloft a moment ago, her previously serene expression now one of incandescent disapproval. The antelope prick up their ears. A glimpse of golden pelt in the grass and an explosion of hooves signifies the beginning of the chase. She runs like a demon, head pointed forward and wings outstretched. Long legs kick up turf, spraying it into the streak of gold fur b...