I’m not a good writer. I’m undisciplined. I majored in people, not punctuation–but you guessed that already. I think my muse tolerates me because I’m a good listener. At least that’s what it tells my dog-eared folded spindled and mutilated copy of ‘A Writer’s Reference.’ Poor book makes Marvin the Paranoid Android sound like Jack Handy.
Really. Seriously? Enough. Just leave me open to page 258. Two. Five. Eight. How any person can recall specifics about (yawn) ionic and covalent bonding but can’t remember if possessive pronouns take an apostrophe is beyond me. Oh wait, it’s not beyond me. It’s just beyond you.My copy of ‘A Writer’s Reference’
I’ve always written for me. I’m sure there are studies about how moving thoughts from pen to paper releases endorphins. And other studies showing that the very act of writing can reduce stress, eliminate age lines and male pattern baldness–not so sure about that last one.
I enjoy writing. I always have. When my muse has said ‘jump’, I’ve almost always jumped. And while this arrangement has worked in the past, I can see now that it needs just a little adjustment.
I spent an amazing week-long writing getaway at (pre-casino) Rocky Gap. Went there to finish a novel. Came away with a short story, Sephra’s Swan, some memories, a few photos–and a still unfinished novel. I’d love to write for one of the serial ‘zines like Channillo. But as Callahan observed, “A man’s got to know his limitations”.
I know mine. Right now the Novella comes first, then query-readying the novels. Will I get there? I won’t if I don’t try. And if my attempt to write for others fails, I’ll go back to writing just for me. Why?
Because I love writing.