Neither inspirational bolt, bulb nor seed has miraculously appeared in
my writing sphere. (I always hold out hope for a Star Trek “Beam me up, Scotty”
type of arrival for creativity. Suddenly a brilliant idea or a symphony of
perfectly joined words could materialize out of thin air. Alas, Gene
Roddenberry I’m not. *chuckles sadly*)
Despite this utter scarcity of fresh creative juice, I have managed to
eek out several hundred, more than passing, words on Book Two. Whether this is
some inborn talent of mine to make something out of nothing or if it’s merely a
case of being darn-good at sweeping up crumbs left from previous literary
spurts, I have no idea.
Ultimately, however, I doubt the readers will care how my next novel
came about. Quite understandably, they’re looking for end-product. The process
means diddly-squat to them… and let’s face it, the process will mean
diddly-squat to me once the book is finished.
The end justifies the means, I’ve got to remember that.
Whether I slaved over every word of a book, giving birth to it after
three months of authorly labor pains, or if it simply materialized in a sparkly
rush of dazzling inspiration, doesn’t matter…
Only that final product proudly sporting its very own ISBN number does.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself as the inspirational dust
bowl continues.
*bravely smiles, while still
keeping hope alive for Scotty to come through*
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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