My friend Duane has been working on a new novel. I’m quite happy for him — he does best when the Muse has granted him some attention.
I’m somewhat in the same boat. I’m on a four-day holiday right now, but because I don’t have my tablet (dropped it, cracked the screen, and it’s currently being swapped for a replacement), I’m kinda stuck at my desk. Which is a challenge when the cats decide that Desk Time = Petting Time and I’m too much of a softie to shoo them away.
Anyway, I’ve had a growing sentiment that the time is nigh to get more serious about book-length writing. In the past, it’s been a bit of a fancy. Now, I’m seeing it more as an essential part of who I am. Much of that focus comes from my monthly writer’s group; we don’t do much writing together but being with like-minded souls of varying degrees of experience helps considerably.
It occurred to me, retrospectively, that my thinking has transitioned away from “quit the job and be a writer” to just “write.” Like it’s not a career strategy but a creative impulse. My experience with NaNoWriMo last year helped. And my various plotting sessions for my next attempt serve like bike rides without training wheels.
Duane once told me that he gets an idea. Then it percolates. He thinks he should do something, but doesn’t. Then he gets more ideas, and soon they come in a flood. Then he just has to write. And he does.
I’m feeling a flood.