Being a writer, of any ilk, becomes so deeply ingrained over time that to cease writing, even for a short period of time, becomes a source of guilt—akin, I suppose, to calling in sick from a nine to five job when the only illness is an aversion to getting out of bed and driving there. Although, I believe that to the writer the guilt is honest and deep—not so much for the person pretending illness for a short staycation.
Here’s a great example: It’s early Thanksgiving morning and I’m here at the computer, knowing I should be working on the novel draft because I had convinced myself that I should. Unfortunately, that conviction is not quite as deep as I would have hoped. Being a holiday, my heart is simply not in it.
Most novelists will probably agree, I guess, that style and emotion of a story is a direct reflection of the author’s state of mind. If that state is bland, so goes the story. I don’t want to simply be stringing words together so that later I can say that I strung words together. There must be life and color in the narrative and dialogue. Today is not the day for it.
A writer will understand that this blog post is my need to write something today, even if it’s not a contribution to the novel draft. Others may have picked up on that as well. So, I’m imparting a free flow of thoughts on writers’ guilt—sort of a bandage that heals nothing, simply hides it until I can get past it.
Here’s the best part: This gives me an opportunity to say Happy Thanksgiving! And, if you suffer from this same malady then, by all means, drown that guilt in turkey, dressing, and gravy. I’m sure going to.
Cyber hugs to all and God bless.