This morning I wrote for three hours. I worked on a short story that has been pressing from the inside out to be expressed. I was struck by this idea almost a year ago and had only jotted down plans/notes/ideas for it here and there. I wrote 5 pages of text plus additional plot notes this morning. My muse was kindly generous today. It felt so wonderful to finally let this story out.
I did stop at one point and wonder what was going on and why all these things at once; several days ago, I woke up from a dream that a character in a book was narrating his story to me, and woke up and wrote it down.
Now, this type of thing has been going on for years with me, where the Muse or a character comes to me and becomes an imaginal figure wanting his/her story told. I have a couple other novels I never finished, even though one was about mid-way finished and the other was almost finished except for some formalities of text.
And then I have a non-fiction book I am writing that is about 3/4 finished. I wrote it as a finished book way back when and then picked it up again these past few years doing additional research on it.
And then I have a bunch of academic and research papers that are either finished or partway finished that can be published on their own as papers but some can also be used as chapters to four other non-fiction books in various stages--just 'coincidentally' it happened like that and they fit together that way.
And then lately from out of the blue, several new articles/papers came to me, 'requesting' to be written. I have notes all over the place, different notebooks in different piles in different places in my office.
And such is the life of a writer that often by others goes unseen. Not just me, but many writers. And when a writer does not write, s/he is often agonized by unhappiness and doldrums and stress that presses in and down upon the soul, and this can be thus the famous (or infamous) depression of the artist/writer/musician/dancer/photographer or any creative person. As long as I can write a least a little while most every day I am satisfied rather than frustrated. I have often joked to people, though, that the dark cloud they might see over my head from time to time is all my unfinished work!
And this is sometimes why I sometimes leave Facebook groups; sometimes I am trying to make time write my own creative work rather than to keep up with others' posts in groups and then respond, which means writing things in the group pages when I 'should' be writing my creative work. Also, I leave groups when too many conversations start steering towards topics I am writing about, because then I feel distracted by another voice of another person and have a harder time getting in touch with and using my own voice (or my muse's voice); too, at times, with certain topics in groups when discussed at large and in detail, if I add my own detail, I get the feeling/satisfaction of having written about those thoughts and I am less apt to hurry to release those thoughts into my own creative works, and this creates for me a conflict of interest. Also along the lines (pun intended) of conflict of interest, I would not want people in those groups who discuss some of the topics I am writing about to end up thinking I lifted things from their writing or their posts, so it is sometimes best to go the loner route when writing rather than be engaged in Facebook groups, even the ones I have loved. I left one group when the discussion gravitated towards a topic of one of my books I have already almost finished, and I left another group that began to speak at length about another topic of another of my books in progress--I need to keep within my own range of my own thoughts and my own research as "The Lone Writer" sometimes for long lengths of time! Also see the song below i comments, "The Midnight Rider!" which I reference to "The Midnight Writer!"
I have to finish my life's work by finishing these projects. I have so much of the content written down in journals and notebooks, some of them going back to my 20s, my teen years, and some even to my childhood years.
Thus ends this blog on the life and times of a writer.