Thursday, September 17, 2009
My daughter and I had a long chat earlier this week. She was in a jokey mood. Imagine if we all lived with you, she said. We could all sit on the chesterfield and watch you write.I laughed but that scared me. Then, I imagined what else she might say and that was worse. It would go something like this:
Before long, we would be asking when we could read the next page. We could offer our opinions. We could chant - is it ready yet? Whenever you gaze into space, or play games, or just generally fart around we could scold you. We would ask you why you have a fetish about putting your submissions in particular mail box and why you check your emails six times a day. We would ask you why you spend so much time on your short stories, when everyone knows almost no one reads short stories anymore, and why you haven't returned to your novel. And - when are you going to write something funny again. We want more silliness.
It was like having a nightmare while awake. Back-seat writers.
As it happens, I have been productive this week, I've drafted a new short story and tuned up an old one and sent it out again. Maybe if I imagine a chorus of back seat writers urging me on, I'll be able to keep up the pace. Then again, maybe not. The muse is fickle and I may have to bribe her. Bribe suggestions are welcome.