Writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives lies a mystery. Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon one can neither resist nor understand.
I like this quote. As a writer, it sums me up nicely. Writing is hard work and I am all about the motto “Work smart, not hard” despite my insistence to learn everything the hard way. Still, it gets old. So many ideas appear in my brain but never at the opportune time. Am I busy at work? Am I in the shower without access to pen and pad? Is it 3 AM in a dark room and my head is spinning dizzily with sleep? If the answer is “yes” then I’m busy having the most incredible, genre shattering idea in history. Sitting down in front of the laptop or with a blank sheet of paper and have nothing but time on your hands? Then, sadly, there won’t be any inspiration for me. I feel like my Muse is some jack booted, Soup Nazi impersonator who smacks me with a riding crop once in a while and screams “No inspiration for you!” in some booming, poorly executed German accent. Okay, crossed a little but into the BDSM side of my mind for a minute so moving back to the writing, what I am getting at is that Orwell nailed it in that one very simple, very concise statement. A writer truly is a vain, self absorbed creature driven by some unseen, unexplained demon that prods at him (or her if we must be all PC) from the depths of the mind. Although, maybe it isn’t narcissism or self absorption but a lack of proper time to BE a writer that spurs that image of being overly self involved. Maybe it’s that as a writer you have to put pen to paper when the idea hits, strike while the iron’s hot as it were? Maybe it’s not vanity but a sense of having something more important than yourself that creates the illusion of vanity? When an idea comes along that moves you to put it to paper it’s very much like becoming a parent. Suddenly there is a new life, a new world even that requires your utmost attention and time. It’s easy to see how it could be considered as something less wholesome to the outside observer who has never had a conversation with their own Muse. When the voice in your head says “create” you create. If not, you can’t expect to achieve the immortality that comes from that creation.
Maybe I’m just waxing philosophic or maybe, and far more likely, I’m rambling when I should be writing? Either way, it feels good to see words dancing across the screen under the careful directions of my finger tips.
In actual writing news, you know, stuff involving my own creative work, I’m hoping to have End Game drafted and seeking publication by the end of summer. I’m also hoping to (finally) see Undertaker completed and on Amazon, and to start a serial of either flash or short pieces on the blog by summer’s end. Lot’s of new experiences in my life this year and more looming on the horizon are starting to make my mind wander down avenues that have long since been closed off so I’m hoping to be putting out some things in the near future with more depth and substance than the penny dreadfuls that you, my lone reader, have known me for. I know I keep talking a big game about more to come but, stick around. The best hasn’t even started yet.