Why do I write?
The news, with each passing day, indicates that my path is one that seems fraught with peril and quite possibly leads nowhere.
To win critical acclaim? I’ve won awards, as author and publisher. I don’t talk about it – no reason in particular, it just doesn’t seem pertinent.
To win a fan base of readers? Yes and no. I see sales, I can watch book 1, then 2 and 3 sell, but I rarely get reviews, though on occasion someone leaves a comment on my website or emails me, telling me how much my words meant. But not on Amazon or B&N. I’ve yet to figure out why. Maybe ‘just because’ has to be good enough, mostly because *how* I write isn’t for everyone.
To engage in a magical process? Yes, but in some ways it’s just mental masturbation. The process is at once unique and shared amongst all who strive to create. At what point do affect and effect cancel each other out?
Then why do I write?
A week ago, I didn’t know Jace McClune or Nick Lopez. When I opened the blank page in Word, I heard clanging (sometimes it’s a knock, most times they just walk right in unannounced) and the disgraced undercover vice cop, Jace, glowered at me. We stared at each other for a long time, then I shut my eyes and found his head space and wrote the first words. In the meantime, Nick, an ex-cop from Miami was headed north to help a mutual friend I’d gotten to know well.
We’ve been together for a week. I am still learning how each man ticks, scribbling their story as fast as I can.
Some days I get it right, some days I don’t. But they never quit on me.
So how can I quit on them?
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