I must go back to a narrative again, to follow the Muse’s eternal cry
And all I ask is my laptop and an idea to guide me by
(Thank you John Masefield for Sea Fever)
You finish one project, it’s taken you quite a while, you’ve experienced all the varying emotions, you’ve fought through the ‘Why Am I Bothering’ fug, you’ve edited or negotiated editing, all typos etc have been sought out, a book cover was navigated you have striven with marketing and finally the work is ‘Out There’ . Then you might think to yourself ‘ I deserve a rest,’
Of course you do
And yet to visit another nautical bit of plagiarism from a jolly yarn.
‘Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November* in my soul [a few more ‘whenevers’ have been omitted Melville being Melville ] …….. then, I account it high time to get to my paper and laptop as soon as I can’
In short. Do writers ever rest? Did not one plot have away in its unused corners threads and motes which begged examination? Was there not a minor character whose shadow would dog your heels and whisper possibilities? On some journey, be it physical, of the imagination, or amongst the other tangles of human consciousness was there not a murmuring of creativity beginning to coalesce? Or did something just come into a writer’s head, a modest literary version of The Big Bang?
Ever wonderous, and tortuous is Creativity, calling you on. Embrace the Restlessness, it requires you to fulfil.
Would we have these feelings any other way?
*Actually those are qualities which make November my favourite month. It marks the finality of the Summer’s assault on my senses – I know, singular. Anyway it has set loose my own restlessness- two projects are beckoning. One SF which requires a dip in Quantum Physics and Mechanics and might take some time (Quantum and Time, now there’s a paradox in the making). The other, that’s a follow on from my previous work, a generation later, and I have not the faintest idea what the plot might be, but one of the Muses is insisting I get writing. Ah good ol’ stream of consciousness, what little nuggets might there be amongst all the silt which will come forth from the dredging.