Had an interesting–and lengthy, my apologies to his wife–phone call last night with someone about why we write. We do it for different reasons, but one common stumbling between us is telling a story for its own sake, versus working with a specific outcome for the piece in mind. In other words, worrying what might become of a manuscript once it’s finished. That is, if it ever is truly done. Along the path, we question the worth or time invested into a piece, and so forth.

The futility of concerns like those sunk in, and I understood at once why I waste so much time on forecasting thoughts–what could happen, how people might react–rather than staying in the moment and letting the characters tell their story. I won’t speak for my colleague, but I indulge those concerns because I have no control over them, therefore they scare the hell out of me.

Sitting down to write on the other hand, is a choice under my influence. I work; I don’t. A simple formula, and wholly about my actions. Yet despite the fact I wield this control, my mind fixates on the very matters I can not change, and knocks me out of the moment. And once the mind is loose, the story suffers and takes longer to finish.

I’m trying a mantra for the next few days where I find myself straying. Surrender the universe. Finish the sentence. That way it’s not about what might happen to the manuscript, just about me writing one line. And how hard is that really?

Perhaps if I do this long enough, I’ll have a long string of sentences behind me.

Maybe even another novel.