I’ve been working on my second novel for a
couple of years, but I always get stuck on the motive of the murderer. Why did (she? he? Wouldn't you like to know?) do it? Everything else is flowing smoothly, like butter on the pancakes I ate
this morning. Boy was that some kind of
good. Vermont maple syrup, but now I’m
distracted, which is what happens to me all the time when I write. I realize that when working on my novel, I
don’t need an hour here, an hour there, I need a day here, a day there – yes,
whole days. I need to let my mind
completely sink into that strange and inviting land of creativity. It is only there that my little helpers (okay, that sounds weird, but I don't have a good name for them yet, so hang in there with me) feel
safe enough to come out and do the work.
They whisper plots, dialogue, action, settings; they tell the story, but
I have to be quite enough to listen.
They took me into the woods recently – a walk with the dog, or so I
thought. The dog took off while my
creative helpers gave me the answers I’ve been trying to force through my own
brain for months. Ask and you shall
receive. Listen and you will hear. Sometimes things take time. I can’t force creativity. Instead I have to make its bed, serve its
meals, bow at its invisible feet . . . and wait.
Give me this day, this glorious day, and I will write you a
story you will not believe.
