(no subject)
Jun. 3rd, 2002 10:33 amI've been musing a bit on the whys and hows of creative writing.
I mean . . . I know *why* I write. Mostly, because I can't *not* do it. But also because it gives me an outlet for my stifled artistic sense (just because I can't draw doesn't make me any less of an artist), and also for the approval of others.
Conversely, the *disapproval* of others just makes me shrug. Well, I'll probably get really mad if I am ever truly flamed, but so far, everyone seems quite happy with my work. I like that. I could get used to it in a way that borders on the distressing.
Do I have a muse? Not per se. I refer to myself as being haunted by the characters, to the point that I can actually visualize them sitting, standing, and otherwise functioning near me. I'm not schizophrenic -- I can tell that they are not actual people. It's not like I'm going to have full conversations with them, believing that I'm talking to a live person -- although I have been known to throw occasional comments their way. It's more of a mind's-eye kind of thing.
Is that the definition of a muse? Who knows? Plot bunnies bite my ankles, but I also have dust rhinos under my bed. I guess my point is simply this: I'm crazy enough to write, and good enough at it to be reasonably popular . . . therefore, I write.
Does it really matter how I get to where I'm going?
I mean . . . I know *why* I write. Mostly, because I can't *not* do it. But also because it gives me an outlet for my stifled artistic sense (just because I can't draw doesn't make me any less of an artist), and also for the approval of others.
Conversely, the *disapproval* of others just makes me shrug. Well, I'll probably get really mad if I am ever truly flamed, but so far, everyone seems quite happy with my work. I like that. I could get used to it in a way that borders on the distressing.
Do I have a muse? Not per se. I refer to myself as being haunted by the characters, to the point that I can actually visualize them sitting, standing, and otherwise functioning near me. I'm not schizophrenic -- I can tell that they are not actual people. It's not like I'm going to have full conversations with them, believing that I'm talking to a live person -- although I have been known to throw occasional comments their way. It's more of a mind's-eye kind of thing.
Is that the definition of a muse? Who knows? Plot bunnies bite my ankles, but I also have dust rhinos under my bed. I guess my point is simply this: I'm crazy enough to write, and good enough at it to be reasonably popular . . . therefore, I write.
Does it really matter how I get to where I'm going?