Here’s why people think writers are crazy:
We say things like:
A woman came to me in my dream last night, and told me to write her story. Or: Those clan of people just wouldn’t leave me alone until I jotted down a few notes of what they had to say.
I know, I know, I was once a non-believer, even when it was happening to me. It wasn’t until years ago when I was reading Alice Walker’s In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens: Womanist Prose, and she was talking about the process of writing The Color Purple that I realized that hearing from the characters, being touched by those characters actually was a part of the process.
I am a short story writer. I am rebelliously a short story writer. I have written a novel and have been contracted to have it published (long story, won’t tell it right now) but today I am determined to write short stories. I know that to get where I need and say I want to be, I eventually need to bang out that novel. I’ve tried. I’ve written, pages, scenes, chapters…
I’ve tried erotic. I’ve tried chick lit. I’ve tried literary. All in all, I haven’t finished. The only thing that’s remained consistent in my novel writing process is my procrastination, so what I’ve taken to doing is not talk about it at all.
That being said, I quietly wrote a first chapter yesterday, grabbing a character from a favorite short story of mine. I actually published two short stories with these characters, I love them so much. This chapter happened because I had developed a headache from the nagging. The ideas clouded my mind and I couldn’t be at peace until I released it somehow. I had already written out a quick outline the other night, slamming down my notebook soon after in frustration.
These people, these women are going to make me write their story. And it’s not going to me easy, or mainstream, or maybe even popular, but apparently, I’m not going to be left alone until I do.