The entire post is insightful, but this particular section was a lightbulb moment. I've been feeling off my game for a few weeks--the writing has slowed tremendously.A book is a magic thing. It has a life of its own. Do you doubt it, in the small hours of the night when you sit up in bed reading and reading, living in a world you never made, unable to bear to leave it until the last page closes and it vanishes into thin air?
Do you think it is any different for me when I write it? It is magic, but so fragile. So hard to find and easy to lose.
Now there's this internet, another magic thing with a life of its own, a million voices roaring whispering screaming over your shoulder into the quiet place where the stories come from. You can either shut it out entirely or try to open one tiny window and hope you aren't washed away in the flood. It's foolish to open the window, frankly. You do that when you're stuck with no magic at hand, and you're bored and discouraged and fretful but you have to stay at the computer just-in-case. It's like having a bottle of liquor in the drawer.
Labels: The Seventh Sense, writing
Name: Lia
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