I’m a writer of questionable character, a corn-snake enthusiast, and a generally affable human being. I’ve written four novels, none published; one of which I’m revising while the other I’m dreading, since the entire second half will need heavy reconstructive surgery (don’t judge me, it was a NaNoWriMo novel).
This blog is an ode. It pays homage to those of us who have to fight through every chapter, through every revision, and through every doubt that plagues us. Some try to dress this up while I argue that this process is thrillingly mundane. Writing isn’t a series of explosions of genius; it veers closer to chiseling away at unstructured content in order to give it meaning.
And, in case there was any question, the answer is yes: I am endorsing domestic muse battery in my heading. Whatever stream of abuse you dish out that results in your muse stomping over to drop something in your lap so it can return to heckling you from it’s corner is fair game.
After all, calling yourself a writer is worthless if nothing ever makes it to the page.