Just finished another 40000 word work. I’ll revise it next week after I’ve forgotten most of it, and by then it could be time to post about it (as it will be novel #28).
But the reason I type this is because I have just suffered from a severe case of writer’s vomit, which is sort of the opposite of writer’s block. The 40000 words came forth in 13 days, including a first revision. I went online to beg for title ideas, and eventually settled on one puntastic title that sets the tone for the book (corny) and also gives away who the main villain turns out to be.
The feeling I get when I just get that many words out that quickly is sort of like the feeling I used to get performing. I guess with my injuries curtailing my ability to do what I used to do in front of a crowd, this is my new adrenaline rush. Not quite as good, sure, for the pump, but the mental feeling of elation was pretty damn close.
So it is like sport in a way. Not everyone can compete at the Olympic Games. But, remember, in de Coubertin’s idea for the Modern Olympics, poetry, novel-writing, sculpture, painting, and other arts were all included. So even though they have been dropped (because, primarily, of the old amateur rules), sometimes it’s nice to do something and wonder “what if”. Sure, my pulp fiction work and corny humour is never even going to get me selected to represent Australia, but fantasies are still there.
So while I can’t do my performance acrobatics, or set foot in a wrestling ring any longer, I can still hope to entertain in some other way. And with that first publication out of the way, let’s see what the future holds now.