I am writing a book that takes all of my creative energy and focus. That means I stopped blogging (a year ago!) so I could concentrate on writing a manuscript.
Tonight, I felt the familiar compulsion that grows from the center of my solar plexus and presses against my ribs and if I don’t write what I’m feeling I’ll pace and wander my house for days. My muse demands my attention. I sit at my untidy desk and press my fingers against this slightly sticky keyboard and wait for instructions. Write something. Write anything! I have spent several weeks editing my book and my muse is bored with the mechanics of language. My muse wants to create!
My book is now a complete, 230 page manuscript with a clear beginning, middle and end. It has theme, structure and focus. But the language needs help. There are too many passive words and awkward sentences. I’ve circled “was” “were” “would” and any other word that separates the reader from the scene. It’s slow going… there are a lot of dull words. And the entire book is lacking sensory detail. I’m going through each scene to mark the places I can add a scent, a texture, a sound… anything to make the place and the people come alive. Right now, they are thin ghosts from my own memory.
All of this word by word contemplation has utterly stopped my writing. No, that’s not right. I am writing. Editing and revision are a part of writing. Questioning every scene and sentence is what helps create a good book. But it also means I haven’t had time to just relax with my pen or my laptop and write words that flow creatively from that deep part of my soul.
I am a caregiver and a teacher as well as a writer, so I have to manage my time carefully. Right now my time must be spent on editing and revising the book I am writing because I want it to be good. I want people to fall in love with the characters and feel the story. That means work. Lots and lots of work.
But there are some nights, like tonight, when I need to release the creativity from my bones and let my muse have fun. My muse is patient. She knows eventually I’ll give in to the hunger.
Creativity is an addiction.
I doubt I’m the only artist who feels this.