About a week ago, I talked about having an idea, and writing it down. I wrote, “You would, though, wouldn’t you?” but I didn’t make a note of what I meant by that.
I left that little morsel in the back of my head to percolate or ferment, or do whatever it was going to do, and, in a little while, I had a plot for a short story. I was pleased, because that was exactly what I needed for the next writing competition.
Yesterday, I came to write that story down, and, low and behold, something else came out. I like the thing that emerged. It is a tiny little story, or, another poem, if the husband is to be believed. I also think that it’s clever. The husband read it and made a comment, and another half an hour after that, it was done.
I am the type of person who loves a bit of instant gratification, so, to be able to write an entire story in one sitting is a great luxury. It’s why I love short forms.
The down-side, of course, is that, by nature, I’m a novelist. Sadly the same thing applies. I have to get that sucker down on paper as fast as humanly possible.
Some writers work on all kinds of projects at once; hell, a lot of them work day-jobs and write in their spare time. I write like a maniac while I’m writing. I do long hours and vast word counts, and everything else stops. Hardly a meal gets cooked, the food is all take-out and cheap restaurants, the washing-up is left to the husband, and the dirty clothes pile up in the laundry baskets.
When I am writing, I haven’t got the time or energy to do anything else. The first draft of a novel emerges in anything from a month to six weeks. It doesn’t sound like very long, I know, but it’s purgatory for all concerned. Except for me, of course; I love it.