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.
