Thursday, September 29, 2011
So I just finished my first novel ever... wow. It was almost five years in the making and I couldn't be happier with the outcome. But... now what? Do I start the next one? Do I take a break? I'm almost helpless when I'm not creating something. It's what keeps me alive. And as so, I already wrote the first chapter to the next book yesterday. Am I helpless to creation or is it helpless to me?
Indeed, there's no other feeling than ideas dancing throughout my head. Than profound thoughts spilling out the pen. Than being able to release the dramatic madness that revolves my passion for life. Its prophetic potion fills me with blissful joy.
Ah, to push the art onward and write yet another one. Sounds intriguing. Sounds delightful. Sounds like a ton of work. But what better things do I have to do? When I'm not creating, I feel DEAD. So maybe I don't have any such choice in this regardless. I am its victim and it is mine. We go tumultuous, thrill seeking, producing gripped - hand in hand.
The story will pour out just as always, and I'll pour myself IN until I'm lost within it all over again. It is in my blood, and who am I to argue with flowing, pulsating life force fluid? I'm a writer, so I have to write. Ah, but... I could always start next Monday...or Tuesday...no rush now...
"I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way."