Paranormal Central

Someone once said to me, “So, you like to write, do you?” which seemed strange, since we were talking about all the books I have written. I am sure I answered yes and probably smiled, as if just thinking about writing brought me joy. The truth is, though, I did not always find writing such a joy. Early on, there were times when I considered writing somewhat of a chore. Sure, I enjoyed the results: a finished novel with my name on the cover. As any author will tell you, a finished book gives one a real sense of achievement. I have heard many people boast that they could write a book if they wanted to, but until one attempts it, one cannot appreciate what an accomplishment it really is. You authors know what I mean.

When I was a kid, I used to come home from school, sit down at the kitchen table and make sure I finished my homework before changing into my street cloths and going out and play. I am like that with everything. If I start a weekend project, I am not happy unlessI can knock it out in a single afternoon. It is the reason I do not read many books. I will take a magazine or newspaper article over a thousand-page novel any day. I am just not that committed to making such an investment in time.

I suppose you can say that early on, I treated my writing like homework, or that weekend project that I rushed to finish before the first day’s end. Once I started a book, I felt as though I needed to hurry up and finish it. Sure, I enjoyed the process when the writing flowed onto the page in moments of blissful inspiration, but in-between those pages,when life’s commitments kept me from the keyboard; I dreaded that chore awaiting me like unfinished homework. Consequently, I believe it sometimes showed up in my work; endings that seemed a bit rushed, plots not quite reconciled and characters left sadly undeveloped.

Then one day something happened; my attitude about writing changed. Somewhere around Resurrection, I decided I would start taking my time with it. I reminded myself that writing was not making me rich, so I might as well treat it like the hobby it was. Instead of the three or so months it usually took to finish a manuscript, I let it take its course and completed Resurrection in just over seven. Did that make it a better book? Not necessarily, but it did make it more enjoyable for me. Now I write when I want to, not when I feel I have to. These days, instead of the feeling that a chore awaits me, I get a rush of anticipation knowing I have a spare hour or two to rescue a story suspended like a cliffhanger, awaiting my every keystroke—ahh, the God-like powers of an author.

I think anyone that has ever written a book or two would agree that, as much as we all hope and dream to make it big in the literary world someday, the chances of that actually happening are stacked wildly against us. So, we write for ourselves, our friends, family and anyone else who will read what we have to say. Me, I write for a scant dozen or so loyal readers who buy my books because (I believe) they thoroughly enjoy them.  They are not obligated through blood or beholden through friendship to spend their hard-earn money on me. If they were, they would not ask when my next book will be out; and in that I find both validation and inspiration to continue. So now, if you will excuse me, I should get back to the pages that matter. After all, I do have a reading public to consider.