Allow me to wax nostalgic as it nears the second anniversary of my latest novel’s birth. I had written the first one ten years ago, then put it away. In the breach between, I turned to other pursuits and wrote only an occasional short story or poem. I had no plans to write another novel at the beginning of June 2008. Oh, but then … I had a dream.
Soon after waking the next morning, I detailed the dream in an email to a friend. Write it as a story, she said. I did. I felt the first twinge. The story refused to let me go. It poked and prodded and pouted until I produced a companion for it. Then, still not content, they both haunted me. I felt an ache.
The stories wriggled and pushed and shoved until I let them loose. I succumbed to the fever. Through the veil of my infirmary, I watched the stories consummate their relationship and give birth to a novel, weak and bleating. In my delirium, I heard it whisper tantalizing what ifs.
With glazed-eye madness, I wrote, revised, edited all summer, all fall, all year. I took a dose of critique; repeated every two weeks. I sacrificed meals, showers, sleep for just a few more minutes to write. Finally, after fourteen months, I delivered my book into waiting beta hands. Nope. Not done. Expand, explain, excel. I relapsed and wrote more, all fall, all winter. Edit. Repeat in Spring. Ahhhh.
Now, I wait for a new infection. One that will lay me low with that delicious obsession with character, setting, and story. I am ready. Inoculate me with that live organism. Come on. Do it. Give me that writing bug.
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