Writing, for me, has become like water to a goldfish; fuel to a car, milk to scrambled eggs – well, you get where I’m going with this. Take away the specific element and the fish suffocates, the car dies and the eggs burn. I think about writing all the time. I feel good when I’m writing and guilty when I’m not. I watch movies and naively phantasize about whether my books would translate to the screen. Would my characters be believable? Would the story lines keep people engaged?
I write in my sleep. I wake up with new lines of dialogue, scenarios that my characters get themselves into and out of amidst the stunning scenery of Scotland and Rome, or on the streets of Washington DC. All the back drops that support the emotions and experiences of my ‘people’ swim in my mind, most of the time.
I visualize the cover of my first, published book. And, despite my fear of this particular part of the process, I even try to see the reviews – both good and bad. I imagine that I can smell the paper of the pages as they are flipped by readers and discussed at book clubs.
I really do want to believe that if you focus on the thing you’re most passionate about, anything is possible. Sometime I doubt it though, and that can’t be denied. However, my need to write can’t be denied either, so I plod on, building characters and story lines, editing and re-editing, cutting and adding, coloring in and graying out. The lines become blurred sometimes, but, for once in my life, the motivation remains steady.