We won’t even get into it. Nope, don’t ask cause I damn sure won’t tell.
“No more self-imposed deadlines” is my mantra for 2012. Not a new year’s resolution because… wait.
Yeah, it is a resolution, huh? Sigh.
Realized a few things:
- I’m so far off schedule that I don’t know when I’m going to finish… even though it will most likely happen within the next twenty pages-max.
- My schedule may have been a little “wack” (as we used to say around the way), a fatal flaw that added unnecessary stress.
- I choked off the source of my creativity by worrying about the number of pages outputted instead of the frequency with which I exercised my gift.
Although the outline was finished last September something happened today that hadn’t occurred in nearly a month: The Muses came bearing gifts.
I subscribe to Steven Pressfield’s theory in “The War of Art”, that Muses honor tangible examples of our dedication to the craft by providing inspiration, ideas far superior to whatever we could have ever come up with on our own.
Don’t speak about the good ideas, cause they aren’t good enough. I’m referring to the otherworldly ideas that feel as though they’ve taken an express train from the heavens, where you’re tied into another dimension, so vivid and real that you sensuously depict each stimulus in remarkable depth.
And it feels easy. Like cheating.
No doubt, Muses at work.
Blah, blah, blah. Anyway, the New Year’s celebration came and went. Story didn’t magically finish and there’s a great word: magic. To paraphrase the words of Little Sara (artist friend / sometime muse), I didn’t let the magic happen… I didn’t leave room for the magic to happen. I took a soulful process and beat the life out of it. Not every moment but often enough to lose my way, even if it meant missing out on moments that would have been edgy and raw. Beautiful at times.
What an educational process writing my first novel has been. A joy exists that hadn’t existed in years, not since I played live music in the L.A. area back in the mid-nineties. There’s a freedom that comes with flying, similar to sex but different. Exponentially more powerful because more people and energies are interacting.
This is where I would usually end with the word count, number of paragraphs, and what chapter I was working in. My clever little gimmick. Instead I’ll end by saying it’s after midnight and I know I should turn in… but Muses came bearing gifts. You see, I’m taking my two main characters on a steeper, scarier forced march than initially planned. Pain will be felt, lines will be crossed, final consequences set into motion. Story left the starting line at ten-plus on the intensity scale, and I’m blowing the roof of this bitch at the end!
…no, borderline arrogance.
I’ll say sincerely that I feel as though I’m but a conduit for this form of expression. I feel connected to the world, part of a community.