The awesome co-hosts for the April 6 posting of the #IWSG are:
Megan Morgan, Chris Votey, Viola Fury, Christine Rains, Madeline Mora-Summonte, L.G. Keltner, Rachna Chhabria, and Patricia Lynne!
Please do visit their blogs and many others listed at IWSG. Here you will find the greatest bunch of writers, talented and supportive. If you’re a writer, you’ll receive a treasure trove of hints on how to succeed. If you’re a reader, you’ll discover the business of writing is not all glory. Often, it’s quite the opposite.
My Writing Cave
There’s a wolf staring at me. Every time I have an impulse to play a round of online poker instead of editing more of Forbidden, I see those fierce eyes daring me to stray. Those beautiful eyes, those penetrating peepers drill into my conscience. He never utters a word, but I get the message.
“Okay,” I mutter, “another paragraph. Happy?”
Am I angry? Not really. I adore Sir “Ernie” Shackleton. He inspires me to think outside the box. He’s my, “What if,” who spirits me away from formula writing. His fire and passion is woven into every scene. Forgive me for being weird, but there are times I would rather be his mate, running wild and free, than be a writer.
Lately, I really hate being an author. How long must I suffer the insatiable urges to create, to imagine, to study, to write, to perfect? Damn it, the demands to please agents, publishers and editors has been overwhelming. When will this madness find satisfaction?
Oh, let me introduce you to my muse, Bart, reclining under my monitor. He’s got a silly grin that makes me smile.
“Hey, pretty woman.” His Spanish accent and sultry expression makes me blush. “Perhaps you could breathe more better if you’d undo some of those buttons on your police uniform shirt. No?”
He’s reminding me that Captain Sharif is about to be executed and I’d better ramp up his police instincts.
“Bart, you’re a sick froggy,” I snicker.
Along with Ernie Shackleton and Bart, are images of a polar bear, a stormy seascape, a woman with her horse, and Hawaii’s Diamond Head. All these things evoke vivid memories. I tumble through a tunnel of rapture alternating with pain and terror. My past, my survival, my ghosts, planted the seeds of The Guardian’s Wildchild and Forbidden.
An inspirational message sits just to the right of my monitor. “You are today where your thoughts have brought you. You will be tomorrow where your thoughts take you.”
Yep, I need an attitude adjustment. When I wrote The Guardian’s Wildchild, it was fun. I would write for hours, forget about eating, or returning phone calls. This past year, writing has become, ugh, a job. Lately, I’ve been writing hoping to please everyone out there.
“Stupid woman, but I love you,” says Bart.
I blow a kiss to my faithful tormentor.
“Hey, you. Come on over to my cave and try out my new sheep skin rug?” softly growls Ernie.
Ernie speaks? I can see by his come hither expression that he’s got something enticing on his mind. My eyelashes flutter in his direction. Maybe a little diversion will help. Guess where I’m going? Forbidden can wait. I feel a new fantasy thriller in the works.
I’m admitting to burnout. If you’re in the same boat, check out this article at Live Write Breathe.