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*