Living in my own world

One of the funniest aspects of writing is how badly it throws off my sense of time. If I finish breakfast and start typing an evening scene in the novella, I emerge an hour or three later blinking and looking around for dinner–my imagination has convinced my body the sun doesn’t know what it’s talking about–it’s not late morning, it’s late at night.

Because I’m still learning the craft of writing, I read tons of advice. One bit that stuck with me–although I can’t remember the reference for it–was not to waste inspiration by talking about it. When you’re enthused about a story, write it. Don’t talk about the story. Your enthusiasm is finite.

So I’m currently living my third angel and djinni novella, bubbling with enthusiasm for the Syrian setting, the crusader castle, the soldierly guardian angel who is re-learning tenderness, the beguiled but suspicious djinni,…it’s an awesome story but I can’t risk talking about it. I have to hoard my enthusiasm–selfish, selfish–and write!

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