Why is it that the more I shouldn't write, the more my mind spits up ideas and plots? I live in a seething volcano of ideas, new ones being spat out in ever-increasing numbers to boil around my feet when I'm least able to dance on top of them.
I started a new story today. One for the Death Machine anthology, which means I have to write it fairly quickly. I have until the end of April to finish it and submit it. Normally, no real problem .. but what to do now? Do I work through the pain? Do I do my best to take care of myself, and the hell with the opportunity?
I want to write. It calls to me, sings to me, whispers sweet seductions of miracles and insanity in my ear. It is what I am, all else stripped away. I will always be a teller of stories.
But when they say an artist has to suffer, did they mean so literally?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment