Inky Musings

I’ve heard from a lot of people (usually non-writers who may or may not in the future pick up a pen) that ‘everyone has a book in them’. I’ve also heard stats on how much time people waste in front of the TV instead of ‘bettering’ themselves. I’d like to state now that writing a book is no way to better oneself or to feel accomplished.

It stinks.

It’s like an addiction that you can’t put down. You love it and you love to hate it. No matter how good your writing may become, you as a writer, are convinced that everything you pen is rubbish. And yet you can’t stop. A new book comes along in your head. New characters call out to you and nag you in your sleep (maybe some professionals would call this schizophrenia?) What’s worst (and sometimes best) is when one of your sub-characters decides he or she wants the starring role and changes your complete outline without your permission and there is no way around it. You must change it (the science teacher in The Faerie Conspiracies was never meant to have such an important role later on in the book, curse him!).

Every so often I say to myself that I will quit this writing game. I’ll sit in front of the TV and veg out like normal people. I’ll get into X-Factor or Come Dancing, or whatever other nonsense the television mogols have mucked our way. I’ll be able to have a normal conversation about real life instead of what my imaginary book characters are doing. Sigh.

Someday. Maybe. Probably never.

Must go. Amber is rousing the captain again and there is talk of mutiny…