Reading generally fulfills one of two purposes for me: Escapism or expansion.
A lack of description leaves much to be desired in the way of proper world-building or even scene-building, to say nothing of being able to create a main character in the mind’s eye.
One place [my perfectionism] is NOT allowed is anywhere near my first drafts.
For years, I’ve struggled to find the time to write. It’s a familiar story, right? I’m too busy, I have other priorities, I’ll get to it later, I can’t carve out any time, etc., etc., and next I know I haven’t written a word creatively in over two years.
I know not to take things personally in this industry, but it’s still hard to send your literary baby out into the world for others to judge!
I’m going to get rejected a million different ways this year, and that’s perfectly fine, because as Neil Gaiman said…it means I’m doing something.
There’s no such thing as having too many books, but I do feel more than a little gluttonous owning so many books I’ve not read.
Does success breed inspiration? Perhaps. Or maybe it’s that I opened a door I’d locked, and once I turned on the lights, pulled back the curtains, and let some fresh air in, everything began to make sense again.
Alas, I am not a poet. At least, I haven’t been one since my high school days, and let’s be honest, weren’t we all poets in high school?
In a supreme twist of accidental fortune-telling, my last blog post was about how hard it is to find time to work on my creative writing. And for all my good intentions, I proceeded to fall off the wagon into a ditch somewhere and I just sort of stayed there until now.
