Thanks for bearing with me. By now, those of you who are regular readers of this blog recognize when I’m having a fit of the sullens because life (or my day job) isn’t letting me write.
All writers face that problem regularly. I shouldn’t inflict my tantrums on you.
However, writing about today’s frustration–while it perhaps should have been confined to my journal–gave me release. The moment I clicked “Publish,” I felt better.
And this evening, I’ve found a tiny sliver of time to jot down notes for the book idea that came to me this morning. It will still be a while until I can schedule time to evaluate whether it’s viable enough to work into a plot, but the first sketch is in place–the who, what, when, where, and why–if you will.
Doing even that is a way to set the mental percolator perking. While I’m asleep tonight, while I’m at work tomorrow, my imagination can bubble away.
Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my story instincts and listen to what my temper–and temperament–are trying to show me.
If the inner writer is raging, I have to let it vent. Once it’s calm, I reward it with a spell of writing or thinking. That’ll keep it happy for a while. But I know this restless, cranky, irascible mood all too well.
I get this way whenever I’m starting a book–not the development and plotting, but the actual writing. It’s simply my process. I won’t ease up on the moody bouts of irritation, the growling, the snarling, and the short fuse of temper until I have at least three solid chapters and feel that the book is truly underway.
Then I’ll relax. I might even become a tolerable human being once more.
The YA plot I’ve been refining, developing, revising, tweaking, and stewing over all summer is finally at the stage for actual writing. There’s enough steam built up. Time to ease off the brake and … roll.