There must be some genetic process buried deep inside me, tiny ribbons of DNA that dictate my creative process. Something that I’m not aware of, something that unfurls, silent and swift, within the depths of my being to accomplish it’s goal. Even while I stuff my face with cheese cubes some nights, or drink wine in front of silly movies, or spend too much time adjusting the contrast on travel photos…it’s working.
I only say this because I think I’m beginning to catch on.
I’m noticing the trend now. Around this time last year, I found myself in a whirlwind blitz of novel-writing. It wasn’t part of NaNoWriMo, though I did begin to participate in that in November 2014. No, it was just unbidden storytelling; a spark idea that had occurred in July 2014, gestated enough, and then sprang forth like howling dogs on an intruder.
(My muse can get aggressive.)
As a result, I wrote a novel in a month. The NA novel was then born. Some nights, I would write until 5am, easily surpassing 10,000 words in a sitting, simply because the blazing, firecracker, gale winds force of my inspiration could not be stopped.
![Yeah, it's a lot like this. [Photo credit: www.barbaraabercrombie.com]](https://emberleighromance.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/caution.jpg)
Yeah, writing novels under the inspiration craze feels a lot like this. [Photo credit: www.barbaraabercrombie.com]
Truth be told, it’s hard for me to write novels when I’m not in the throes of creative ecstasy. When I’m not smashed, face-first, into the windshield of the barreling train that is my inspiration during Peak Time. If I’m not feeling the novel, I can’t write it. I can plow forward, slogging through muck, to put words on paper. And yes, sometimes that is necessary even during inspired novels. But if I’m not bursting at the seams to write a story, maybe that story shouldn’t be written by me.
For whatever reason, it took a year between the creative outpourings. Just a week or so ago, I began a new novel–one that was unplanned, not on my schedule, and completely knocking at my door begging to be let in. (I mean, I had to open the door right? I can’t just let that novel stay out in the cold.)
It’s awesome. It’s thrilling. It’s surprising. It’s invigorating. It’s exhausting, because I’m staying up way past my bedtime every night.
But I guess that’s part of my process. It’s a slow buildup, a tectonic crawl that creates enough pressure until one day, the gasket blows and it’s a frenzy of key-taps and sighs trying to clean up this mess.
Hey, I’ll take it.
