20 June 2011


I’ve been asked a few times if I enjoy writing.  Usually the word yes comes out of my mouth before I even think about the question deeply. 
I do love writing, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.  There are days when the words flow, ideas tumble over themselves to make it onto the page, and sub-plots or twists in the story come to me, and fit in so neatly I could believe I had consciously foreshadowed the event.
But there are other days, and if you’re a writer I’m sure you’ll know what I mean.  The ones when almost any other task is preferable to writing, the days you have to drag each word onto the page, and when characters are as wilful as a 2 year old in meltdown.
More truthfully I suppose I should say, I love having written.  The sense of accomplishment at a scene complete, the day’s word count met in record time, or some other quiet triumph.
If I waited until the muse, inspiration, or whatever you want to call it, struck, then I’d be waiting a long time.  I think success is only met by showing up everyday and getting stuck in.  Good day or not.  Creative juices flowing before you sit down, or not. 
Every writing session I tell myself I can’t publish a book if there aren’t any words on my page.

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