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21 March, 2012

There are times when writing is so hard i cant bear to speak to anyone for days. it makes me want to curl up under the duvet and cry until the urge to write goes away and lets me live a life of not being an artist, just like everyone else.

And then there are days like today when i spent my lunch break plotting, with the ideas coming so fast i couldn’t keep up with them.I made notes in four different documents at once as the ideas bred ideas. Future plot arcs, realisations about characters and what in their past made them who they are, decisions on the nuts and bolts of moving people about to get them where they need to be for events to happen. All shouting at once, desperate for my attention. Only a writer, a musician, an artist knows the euphoric feeling that comes from knowing you have been genuinely inspired and you have channeled ideas from somewhere.  These are the days that make the pain worthwhile. These are the days when the genius turns up for work aswell and gives me all these thoughts and pointers. These are the days when I can look back at the work I have just produced and believe that maybe there is this one thing that I really can do.

As a friend said to me, sometimes it would be easier to be a Muggle. But I’m not, I’m a writer. It’s What I Do. I have been since I could read and write. From about the age of eight i would type stories on my Dad’s huge clunky typewriter. Then it was for pleasure I suppose, but I didn’t really think about why or how I wrote, it was just What I Did. And many years later, I’m still doing it.


From → Writing

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