I hate taking medicine. I despise the notion that everything I need to be a perfectly healthy specimen isn’t inside of me already. Likewise, when I get depressed or run down or just out of ideas I hate actually doing work outside of my own writing. The correlation struck me today. I recognize at once that reading and working with other writers is quite a bit like taking medicine. I draw courage and inspiration from other writers. I draw motivation from people busting their humps to get stuff done. It is, in a sense, the very medicine needed to get my butt in a chair and writing.
I’ve spent most of this morning digging through digital piles of student writing. I’m making notes on all of these stories and trying to remind writers of the core goals of story and how to really shape their work in a more effective/appealing way. As I make notes I find myself more compelled and motivated to sit down and write. Helping them craft their message heals the part of me that has for so long been unable to craft my own.
This doesn’t directly apply to essays, of course. I don’t give interesting enough assignments to be inspired by what comes back to me. That too ought to change over the course of the next semester. I feel like I get no benefit from reading an essay about something neither I nor the writer actually cares about.
Finding this bit of energy about writing feels fantastic. I wish I could figure out a similar formula for physical activity.