Just read this on Rex Pickett’s blog (author of Sideways), and had to share it with you:
“[Writers are] mostly otiose, feckless fools, dreaming of riches while staring at our blank screens.”
I must admit (proudly) that I don’t feel this way anymore. I used to say that I didn’t want to be a “writer” so much as to be a “have written”. I still dream of riches, yes, but my screen is no longer blank. And I’m looking forward to filling up the white space that’s still left.
On a related (though possibly ironic) note: still working on that outline. It occurred to me yesterday that writing a novel is like playing chess with yourself. In your head. Since I can’t see more than one move ahead in normal chess, I’m boggled at the prospect of holding every single chess move of this book in my mind simultaneously.
And then I realized that I don’t have to. I’m going to have an outline that I can look at any time I want, with all the moves beautifully laid out.