I’m not a robotic human, with a frozen heart. I feel (profoundly, sometimes). I’m made of amazement, joy, anger, gratitude, love, frustrations,…
But those emotions are part of my being — the same way my organs are part of my body. What I’m talking about is passion.
To write fiction I need to have passion, I need to light the fire; I have to have an interior burn (slow or devastating).
This last couple of months I went into an emotional hibernation. The impact it had on my writing is frighteningly obvious.
I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo, and I won — I wrote 50.056 words in 30 days. But it was that kind of writing that you just put words down. I hate my draft. But I’m alright with that; the first draft shouldn’t be something to stress us about (to write is to rewrite, right?).
I wrote a lot during November, but I was numb. The result is, of course, a mirror: a shallow comatose story; utterly opposite from the story in my head, that is intense, with charismatic characters with sharp and defined arcs.
My writing is always a reflection of myself. If I’m on fire, my writing will be seductive and involved, able to take the reader inside my words (and, even, make him feel those delicious sensations my characters are living). If I’m off, my texts will be superficial, meaningless words floating, with no anchor.
Recently, an event (or a sum of them) triggered me. Something blew my shy discrete flame and set it fire. It woke me up from my deep sleep.
Everything is ephemeral. That event will become only a memory. But even in its short life, it was special. And it resuscitated my emotional writing.
I’m back to my draft, injecting life to the characters, reviving scenes, feeding conflicts. Depth.
I envy writers that write daily, independently if they feel like it if they are tuned with the work in progress. I’m not a part of that clan. I prefer not to write than to be frustrated with my shitty empty shallow sentences, and angry at the process. I prefer to take a step back for a couple of weeks if needed and then come back, full of myself.
I might not be a productive writer, but I am (a sensitive) happy one.