In the last few days, I watched Elizabeth Gilbert speak about creative genius, and finished William Zinsser’s book, On Writing Well. Both things loosened some ligament in me that had prevented me from starting a new novel since sometime last year (maybe even longer). On Saturday, within an hour of finishing Zinsser’s book, I dove into my story with abandon.
Before Saturday I convined myself I had plenty of good reasons to delay, but truthfully, I was hindered by fear. Fortunately, this story is a survivor. It didn’t starve and disappear like others I’ve ignored. This one has steadily been shaping itself in the back of my mind, biding its time for me to be ready.
“This one is important,” says the Muse. And now I’m listening. What exactly was I so afraid of anyway? It’s just a story. Just words on a screen that nobody will ever have to see unless I want them to. And since I started writing, the Muse has taken me into vastly different directions, writing pieces that don’t appear to have a connecting thread… yet.
Now that the Muse is being fed, I’m sure all the secrets will be revealed eventually. I’m throwing judgment out the window. I’m going to trust this. Because that’s the job. And I’m just the scribe.