I woke up this morning with my head spinning. Ideas for the next novel were flying around in my mind so fast I was sure I’d forget something before I found my glasses and made my way to a piece of paper. Fortune was with me, though, and well before noon I had a hefty chunk of the sequel’s outline done.
I think I can finally relate to what athletic people experience when they push themselves to go that extra mile, or power past the muscle fatigue when climbing that extra-steep rock face. There’s a rush of accomplishment that comes with the triumph that has little to do with external forces or validation; the battle–and a large part of the reward–is wholly internal. Today, it was just me and the mountain…
Well, a mountain of index cards (which can be fairly dangerous as well, given the high likelihood of paper cuts).
I guess writing’s not as solitary a pursuit as I like to claim it is. Whether it’s a battle against laziness, a dreary trudge through spans of no inspiration, or a brief, rare reign as master of my invented universe, there’s always two of me hanging around; The Writer and The Hack. All too often it’s The Hack that gains the upper hand, goading me into believing everything is impossible and nothing is attainable. But, every once in a while The Writer surfaces and The Hack gets spanked.
It’s days like this that I’m elated to be a writer. Today, the possibility that there may be no need for a sequel if book Numero Uno is never published can’t faze me. The Hack is out to lunch, and The Writer is all business.