Dangerous words, I know.
I set aside a couple of days a week (when I'm able) to catch up on my blog reading. It doesn't always work out the way I'd like. You can thank the gods of the telephone for that.
Today there was a reoccurring theme, one that my muse has been whispering for some time. He's now standing across the room from me (Yes, at work. He has no shame) giving me that "Told you so" look I hate. He knows that. That's why he does it. Have I mentioned my muse is evil?
Writing is scary. Or it can be, if you're writing about anything worth writing about. It's scary because when we put words on paper, they are there. Forever. Even if we delete them, throw them away, burn them, there are there. We've brought them forth from the aether and (even if for just a moment) they existed. And we never forget that.
Many times I fear what I'm writing because it's different. It's weird. Sometimes it scares me (content wise, not just the fact I'm doing something different). This fear, however, only comes after I've been writing a while. When I start, I'm free, I pound out words and I'm blown away by what's coming out. I'm not thinking about it. Not thinking...
Then, slowly, I start thinking. And all that awesome dwindles until my characters are cardboard and their words taste like sawdust. Problem? Thinking too much about what I'm writing and thinking too much about what others will think of it when it's out there.
Solution? Write like the hounds of hell are after you. Write like you've only got an hour to live. Write like your life depends upon it. Because it does. If you're a writer, it does.
And if your muse is like mine, you might just have an hour to live. Or have the hounds of hell after you. Yeah. I love my muse. Did I mention he's evil?