I have a confession to make: I have no muse.
While I’m at it, I’m going to admit to a few other things:
I never wrote a story until the week before classes of my freshman year in college.
Stories do not call to me, forcing me to write them.
If someone were to ask me what my best advice for becoming a writer is, I’d say, “If you can be happy doing something else, do that.”
In fact to many outside observers, it seems that I don’t like writing very much.
But in many ways, writing is like a relationship. It can be…utterly awesome…and also the most draining grinding work known to man. Writing and I are like an old married couple. All you might see are the snarky arguments, but really, we love each other.
I write because, at its best, there is absolutely nothing I would rather do.
A piece of one of Seamus Heaney’s poems comes close to describing:
To work, her dumb lunge says,
is to move a certain mass
through a certain distance,
is to pull your weight and feel
exact and equal to it.
Feel dragged upon. And buoyant.
As for NaNoWriMo, Eric has posted some thoughts of his end of our writing process. As contrast, I offer the title and synopsis I put up on my NaNo profile Friday or Saturday night:
The Adventures of RCJ471 in the 25th Century
RCJ471 sees all, knows all. It’s his job. He knows when errant shipments appear in the Tubes. He knows how big the Tallstair harvest is and what the Biggheds are keeping from the Econmen. He even knows about that star that fell a week ago, if you think to ask him about it.
But RCJ’s asset is that not many think about him at all. Would you give a guinea pig a second thought?
This is…not really what I’m writing. This novel deviated almost immediately. And that’s how it goes.