The ground beneath her cheek trembled. You must get up, a voice inside her said. She breathed in the damp, earthy scent of churned soil. As the ground shook again, she thought, Why?
I feel oddly purposeless if I don't write anything in a day, as if somehow a twenty-four hour period is wasted if I don't do something creative in it. I need to write, or draw, or work on a campaign, or do something. It's not enough to put in my forty-hours-a-week at my day job.
It's not enough.
I start to know, at last, the taste and the scent of obsession. Or perhaps I've known it all along and only thought I did not. Or maybe I am still learning.
But dreams don't need to have motion
To keep their spark alive
Obsession has to have action
When I started work on Prophecy again, I listened to that song often. This is a key distinction, between a dreamer and a writer. I had kept Prophecy's spark alive for many years, but I had not been obsessed with it. I didn't need to do anything with it. I could let it lie ... forever.
But it was only a spark. If I wanted it to be more than that, I needed to be passionate about it. Determined. Obsessed.
I didn't think that I could be. I thought that, having been for so long a dreamer, that Dreamer was my nature. People are driven; they don't make themselves driven.
If their lives were exotic and strange
They would likely have gladly exchanged them
For something a little more plain.
But those visionaries, they can't help themselves, can they? They have to create. Driven by muse, by pride, by a nameless possession. No choice, no chance to exchange it for something else.
But I work on this, think of this, day after day, week after week, month after month. Plotting and planning. Not only the book, but other stories. I want to write down words that entertain, to create characters that make people smile. If not this story, than some other. I browse through markets, read story archives, look for places to sell, think up new ideas to sell, consider revisions.
I thought drive was something you were born with, like brown eyes or light skin.
I really thought, I really believed, that I didn't have it.
Yet here I am, thinking, "I need to write something tonight; I can't spend a whole evening just watching DVDs or reading."
I need to write.
I wrote over 400 words on Prophecy tonight, before I started this entry, and I find myself thinking "That's a nice start, but I ought to do something more."
No muse, no nameless possession. I am not enslaved to a driving force outside of myself.
I'm still working on that novel but I'm just about to quit
Worried about the future now or maybe this is it
I can quit any time.
But I'm not going to. I don't want to quit. I like moving forward. I like this sense of progress. I like looking back and seeing how far I've come. I like thinking about what I'm going to do in the months ahead. I don't want to go back. So I'm not.
Huh. Fancy that.