Back in the 1980's, I had the distinct pleasure to meet, and have a wonderful lobster dinner with, Patty MacLachlan, author of the 1986 Newbery Medal for Sarah, Plain and Tall. It was on Cape Cod, at the family home of a member of our Buffalo area writer's group. Fun-loving Patty wore the Newbery around her neck that evening and we were all pretty excited, probably figuring it was about as close to one as any of us would ever get. But I distinctly remember Patty saying something that has stuck with me. "Now what am I going to do?" In other words, "How do I top this?" A handful of authors have actually managed repeats, but I'm sure that the millions of us who are a click or two (or three or four) down from that rarefied atmosphere also deal with the same fear on a daily basis. "Am I even going to write something better than I did yesterday? Or get a new idea?"
Of course, you are. And I am. That's practically a given, unless we give up writing altogether. (And occasionally, one can make a case for that.) But there are days when the muse is too busy doing--oh, whatever muses do on their days off--and the words and ideas just won't come. The Internet is filled wit all kinds of tips and suggestions to get us over the rough spots, but to be honest, even those can get a little wearing You long--I long--for the surge of inspiration that sends me running to the computer or back of an envelope, that makes me want to ignore things like doctor's appointments and cooking and editing someone else's manuscript. (Even the bad writers have ideas, for pity's sake!)
So, I ran into a bout of that a few months ago. I was planning a series of chapter books. The first two plots came in a rush. Practically wrote themselves, they did. And then--basically nothing. A two book series? Not quite what I had in mind. Every quiet moment, I thought about it. Thought and thought and thought. Nah, that won't work. Neither will that. Or that. That, either. Too--whatever. I fiddled. I diddled. I went to doctor's appointments and cooked and edited other people's manuscripts. It was the old saying: If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. If it weren't for bad ideas, I'd have no ideas at all. I despaired.
And then one morning, as I tossed and turned and tried to wake up but wasn't really getting there, it came. The whole book. Plot and everything. Twists and turns. Names of characters. A movie was practically showing on the backs of my eyeballs. It was so clear, so vivid, that when I eventually woke up completely, it was all still there. I didn't even have to write it down. (Although I eventually did.) Why had I agonized? The crockpot of my novel had been simmering away, blending all the flavors together until it was ready to be served. Oh, me of little faith!
(With a special nod of thanks to my old Western New York writer's group: MJ Auch, Karen Beil, Nancy Buss, Margery Facklam and Sallie Randolph. Good friends and writers all. We had fun, and we got published!)
Of course, you are. And I am. That's practically a given, unless we give up writing altogether. (And occasionally, one can make a case for that.) But there are days when the muse is too busy doing--oh, whatever muses do on their days off--and the words and ideas just won't come. The Internet is filled wit all kinds of tips and suggestions to get us over the rough spots, but to be honest, even those can get a little wearing You long--I long--for the surge of inspiration that sends me running to the computer or back of an envelope, that makes me want to ignore things like doctor's appointments and cooking and editing someone else's manuscript. (Even the bad writers have ideas, for pity's sake!)
So, I ran into a bout of that a few months ago. I was planning a series of chapter books. The first two plots came in a rush. Practically wrote themselves, they did. And then--basically nothing. A two book series? Not quite what I had in mind. Every quiet moment, I thought about it. Thought and thought and thought. Nah, that won't work. Neither will that. Or that. That, either. Too--whatever. I fiddled. I diddled. I went to doctor's appointments and cooked and edited other people's manuscripts. It was the old saying: If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. If it weren't for bad ideas, I'd have no ideas at all. I despaired.
And then one morning, as I tossed and turned and tried to wake up but wasn't really getting there, it came. The whole book. Plot and everything. Twists and turns. Names of characters. A movie was practically showing on the backs of my eyeballs. It was so clear, so vivid, that when I eventually woke up completely, it was all still there. I didn't even have to write it down. (Although I eventually did.) Why had I agonized? The crockpot of my novel had been simmering away, blending all the flavors together until it was ready to be served. Oh, me of little faith!
(With a special nod of thanks to my old Western New York writer's group: MJ Auch, Karen Beil, Nancy Buss, Margery Facklam and Sallie Randolph. Good friends and writers all. We had fun, and we got published!)
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