There are many things to love about writing, if you are the sort who loves to write. I have never been afraid of a blank page before me. I do not get nervous when the story stops flowing freely and I have to step back for a moment to figure out what’s happening. These days I’m slower to go back to writing than I was in the past, but even seven years after I quit smoking, that’s still the first thing I want to do when I get stuck – go outside and smoke a cigarette.
These days I’ll go for a walk or pace around the kitchen chewing on a pen, or a pencil, or a highlighter cap. It’s still not the magic of breathing smoke out of my lungs and watching it plume into the air, forming ephemeral shapes and swirls. Smoking would almost hypnotize me, the texture of the smoke in my lungs, the swirl of it in the air around me. It was like being a magician, the cigarette my magic wand that would help cut through the detritus of my brain to find the threads of the story again. One cigarette, at most two, and I would be flowing along once again. Now that may take an hour or more to figure it out.
There are days when I miss smoking incredibly and wish that there was a way to smoke a cigarette that wouldn’t be harmful. Or that they would create a cigarette that wasn’t harmful to smoke. Those ecigarettes just don’t cut it since there is no ash on the end to flick off or stare at closely while my mind wanders the halls of my story with my elfin muse at my side (my muse still smokes like a chimney in my head, by the way).
I want to write and to make enough money off of it to continue to do it. The problem is, I don’t want to spend the time necessary to try and get published. I just want that part to happen by magic. I occasionally send out one of my novels for consideration and have rarely received back a form letter rejection, instead getting back praise along with my rejection, which always leaves me puzzled.
Once more into the breach, as the saying goes…