I just copied and pasted the following quote on my Facebook page: “Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” — Gene Fowler

This morning at four as I rose and padded upstairs to the kitchen to start the coffee maker, muse-kitties scrambling to get there before me (to the kitchen, not the coffee maker), I thought of the above quote…also whined to self about the Supreme Sacrifice it takes to be a writer. (Keep in mind it’s 4 am and I hadn’t yet had my first cup of coffee.) But back to the sacrifice: keeping buns in chair during the long months of the creative process, from creating characters to designing plot, then…gasp…facing that awful moment of knowing I must actually begin…writing, bringing my characters to life in the world I’ve created. I stare at the blank page, placing hands on keyboard and fingers on keys, and think “How in the world can I write a story that has all the powerful imagery, living-breathing characters, and page-turning qualities I dream it should have?” Terrifying, this. And it happens not just once, but every morning when I sit down in front of the computer and try to get back into the “zone” where I last watched, heard, and felt the emotions of my characters as they moved through this mystical world that existed yesterday. And I ask myself, terrified once more, “Will they join me today? Will that world still be there?”

Eyes closed, I pray for courage, and then I begin to type, telling myself that what I write isn’t engraved in stone. It can be/will be edited/revised/and revised again. And if I don’t writing something, I will have nothing to edit. One paragraph, two, three … then Mary Rose steps onto the stage of my mind, gives me a wink, and comes to life. She shows more spirit than I expect this day, and I like that about her. Grinning, I let her go her rather headstrong way…letting her speak unexpected words, or laugh, or weep. Then Gabe comes onstage, and oh my! — there’s conflict, more than I anticipated. I can’t wait to see how Mary Rose reacts, what he’ll say next. I forget I’m the one creating. My fingers type as if connected to my brain. (Well, duh, they are!) Maybe I should say, my fingers type without my being conscious of their mechanical movement. It feels as if my characters are the storytellers and I’m simply following along to see where they take me. Before I know it, I’m falling in love with storytelling all over again.

Supreme Sacrifice? Some might think that choosing to turn into a writing hermit, not leaving the cabin for days on end, staying in the story 24/7 — is a sacrifice. But this morning I feel great joy in the writing process and can’t wait to find out what happens next. The thought of staying with this story and these characters for another two weeks of “hermitage” suddenly feels like no sacrifice at all. (But that doesn’t mean I won’t whine to self again tomorrow at 4am.)

Happy writing today to those who write, happy reading to those who read the works of our hands…and hearts!

Diane