First and foremost, thank you to all those who reached out yesterday with movie recommendations.
Our “to watch” list is now plump and no longer malnourished.
For the curious:
Laura and I settled on The Accountant 2, which turned out to be quite the fun watch, though the moment those credits rolled in, we hit the pillows quicker than an exotic dancer slides down a well-greased pole.
And, thankfully, Master Liam granted us a mostly uneventful night.
So a win-win overall.
Anyway, to the email:
One thing I’ve long espoused from the rooftop of my ivory tower is that fiction authors are more akin to journalists.
What I mean by this is we don’t so much “create” stories as we “discover” them. When something appears before the fog of my mind — a scene, a piece of dialogue, a twist — it’s my job to scribble it down as I experience it in as much detail as humanly possible.
The sights, smells, sounds… all of it.
Yet, for some of my peers, this notion of being a creative “journalist” crosses a few brows.
What can I say?
Egomaniacs are a pervasive breed among the arts, and I am not ashamed to say that I am one of them.
(I didn’t bestow myself the title, Overlord & Saviour, just for the chuckles. 😉)
Difference is, I’ve long accepted that art is a collaborative effort, for every painter needs a subject or a setting. Every singer needs instruments and musicians. Every director needs actors and actresses.
And every author needs the muse, editors, and proofreaders.
Oh, and one other thing:
A crap-tonne of coffee.
I know for a fact that if I didn’t have the aforementioned thing, Curse of Abbey Ruins, Tiny Epics: Vol. 1, and The Divided Region would cease to exist.
Luckily for you and me, they DO. 🙂
As does my Twitter page, where some of my peers have come to love and loathe my brain farts.
In my defence, Milo the Muse is a disorderly navigator.
You can join in the fun here:
DJJW