(Written almost entirely tongue-in-cheek with a teasing nod to the historical romance writers and readers in mind… Enjoy!)
Virginia Woolf once wrote, “As for my next book, I am going to hold myself from writing it till I have it impending in me: grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear, pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.” Dear, dear Mrs. Woolf tackled a problem that most would-be authors only dream of enduring—too many wonderful ideas for great works vying for dominance in her magnificent brain at once. (What does the word “gravid” mean, anyway?)
I’m sorry to say I don’t share Virginia’s dilemma. If I have a profound, original idea per quarter, I pat myself quietly on the back and hasten my return to a mundane, uninspired existence amongst the illiterate minions. My experience is probably more akin to that of Gene Fowler who wrote, “Writing is easy: all you do is sit staring at the blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.” If you found that last sentence amusing, you’re probably not a struggling writer. But, I digress…
Don’t be alarmed, dear Reader. I’m not utterly miserable and dejected. I’m actually having a very good day. There’s just one teensy weensy little thing gnawing away at me—the necessity to write these infernal, inescapable posts. Why the drama? Well, I suppose I do owe you a bit of an explanation. I’ve made up my mind, you see, to enter something on this blog religiously—if you’ll pardon the expression—three days a week. If you’re not a writer, you are likely vastly relieved to discover that I haven’t gone off my meds and succumbed to the relentless rat-a-tat clamor of murderous or suicidal voices in my head.
No, I’m not there yet, nor will I ever be. I am very happy to report that—fair weather or foul, good news or bad—I am ardently determined to lean serenely, marvelously, peacefully upon the everlasting arms of my dear Savior. Won’t you join me?
Have a blessed weekend….