Funny things happen unexpectedly, blossoming into wondrous revelations. I was talking writing with a good friend of mine today (they do exist, Ma), and for a few strange minutes, we were completely in sync about our writing.
I love Science Fiction. Oh, I do, in all its many splendid forms. I love reading it most, but watching a good space opera works too. As it turns out, though, writing it is not within my ken. The hardest part is actually coming to grips with that. If I like it so much, why can’t I write it? I’m not sure. But today I confirmed, I’m not alone.
So what is it I’ve discovered I wrote when I should be writing? To be honest, I’m not certain it has a great classification. My friend called his work suburban fantasy, but I’m not so sure that label would apply. What I am sure is that when I sit down to work on it, the words flow, quickly, passionately, and steadily. I asked my friend Rebecca to read the rough-rough draft of that novel, to see if it had any character in it, then tried to retract it from her (too late). Now I not only want to finish that story properly, but I can feel a worm digging through my brain, laying eggs for the next tale.
<Brain parasites are the best.>
Writing is, at least for the moment, a hobby, not a vocation. Yes, if you want to succeed you need to put the time and effort into it. But no one is forcing you to write, or to write stories that you don’t have the passion to tell. And that’s the nail on the head. From here on out, I only want to write the stories that kindle my passions. Anything less is going to be boring and pointless for everyone. Even if it does deserve a Paranormal Romance cover, tight jeans and all.
