Sunday. What’s usually a day of rest for most never seems to be that way around here, so how nice it was to get the weekend projects knocked out yesterday and actually have today to myself. A little vacation planning, a little wine….a little dinner prep, a little wine….a little writing, a little wine….and shortly, homemade grilled pizzas and a little wine. Sounds like a great day to me!
But let’s face it….while that first glass of wine or two quite often brings my muse skipping along with fairy-dust shooting out her ass while snapping her fingers and yelling “Crack those knuckles and get to work girl, I’ve got my creative on!”, that third (and fourth, and, well, occasional fifth) glass usually has the lazy bitch calling a cab. I know, calling my muse a lazy bitch isn’t exactly what a begrudgingly under-inspired author should be doing. But maybe if she showed up for work once in awhile, I wouldn’t have such a reserve of repressed creativity.
Oh, who am I kidding? Do I really need a muse to be inspired? To be creative? Nope. I don’t. It’s just an easy excuse for finding something else to do besides write. That’s right, a writer who doesn’t want to write. For those non-authors in the audience, let me explain.
Whether you’re an accountant, a parent, a teacher, a sales rep, a CEO, or any combination thereof, we all want to kick ass at our job. It’s all the work in between that sucks. Being a writer is no different. We often see the beginning, ending, and key scenes of a story in our heads long before we put pen to paper. It’s figuring out how to tie them all together to create a logical, fast-paced, fun to read epic that’s the hard part. Or at least one of the hard parts. There’s also that whole character-building thing. And theme, plot, setting, fact-checking, timeline, point of view, editing, rewriting, getting less-than-savory critiques from your writing cohorts….then more editing, rewriting, and so on. All for something that may never see publication, with the exception of its title in a rejection letter from yet another agent.
Really, I can think of a lot of less painful things to do than write — like shaving my legs with a rusty steak knife, or stepping barefoot on a wasps’ nest, or getting brain surgery with no anesthesia. But writing fiction is a whole lot like hosting your family at the holidays — it’ll drive you bat shit crazy, but you love it anyway.
That said, it’s back to the drawing board. Right after I pour another glass of wine.