I won’t have access to a computer tomorrow morning and because I’m making blogging part of my life again, I want to be sure something fresh is up to entice my happy readers. I scoured the internet–my usual blog-haunts, my trashy celeb sites, my own life…and I got nothing people.
So, I’m going to do attempt another literary post that I know will electrify my readers and put some sizzle in the start of their new week.
Over at Jamie Ford’s site he discussed (the other day) the way he feels when he starts a new book–excited.
And I agree, there is no part of writing more pleasurable for me than the period when I’m mentally entertaining a new plot, new characters, and new ideas. This usually happens when I’m beginning the query process of one book. Or, as was the case with my last book, it had been in my head for twelve years before I actually wrote it.
This part –this high I get from what’s possible, the excitement of anything’s possible and nothing can stop the book from being a smash hit is similar–I imagine–to what it must feel like if one were beginning an illicit affair. There’s no trouble, no problems to solve, no icky bathroom habits, no one-dimensional characters or small plots to make bigger. But like the illicit affair, as it continues–or as the writer actually has to begin writing–the problems emerge. The guy picks his ass all day, the woman picks at her toes, or their spouses catch onto the cheating and the shit hits the bricks hard. The ugliness, the weaknesses, the utterly sobering thought of "what the hell am I doing with this operation? What was I thinking to spend my good time and sweat on this pitiful relationship?" appears and you either dig in and fix it or bail on your entire life.
Just for the record–no I don’t have illicit affairs. I just write them. Good day and thanks for reading.