I had a really good couple of days writing this Friday (Good Friday: did that have anything to do with it?) and Saturday. I was “into the zone” and at one point this afternoon my wife waved her hand between me and the iMac and I nearly jumped the hell out of my skin. She wanted me to smell a new perfume she’d put on her wrist. (My novel is called Smelling Chloe and the protagonist makes her own perfumes.)
When the writing is going well–and as we all know that feeling, I hope–one can truly believe one has every right to call oneself a writer. And when its the shits and nothing’s coming, or it’s coming but every second line is filled with clichés, we all know what that’s like, and that is precisely when we must remind ourselves, we are writers, and this is what it’s all about, words on a page, word following word.
Val just called from the living room: Are you going to get off that thing soon? You’ve been at it all afternoon. So I have. So I have.