It took a long time for me to realize I was a writer. I did lots of other creative stuff (comic book art, playing RPGs, music, making an ass out of myself) before it finally settled on me that writing was my vocation.
But I remember in each of my previous ventures, there were moments when the excitement of what I was doing was like a wild rush. It blocked out the rest of the world. It was like someone had slipped speed in your coffee.
It could be anything: making an awesome adventure for the latest expedition to the barrier peaks; playing our new song on stage for the first time; getting the lyrics just right on an acoustic number. Something triggered a wild rush of excitement about the possibilities being unlocked in your art.
Like these other times, the bolt of excitement in writing usually comes in the idea phase, when I’m just mucking about the cool shit in my brain. And when the bomb goes off, and the idea gels, I feel like a kid again.
I had a moment like that yesterday. I was just reading an introduction to a Robert E. Howard Conan collection. And something in the essay acted like an accelerant to some ideas in the back of my brain, that then everything rushed to the forefront. I hammered out some attempt at brain storming, to get it while it was hot.
It felt awesome. Like all those long walks I used to take with my friend James, when we just rambled on about comic book heroes, who could beat who, or what would be the most epic villain, or the scariest horror movie. You just keep going until there’s nothing left and your adrenaline fades.
It’s just an idea. Nothing more. And there’s no banking on it being a terrific story/novel/whatevah.
But it was a wonderful rush. Looking forward to my next one.