So, whatcha doin’?

Shamelessly filched from thefilter

WARNING: This post is likely to greatly resemble a Seinfeld episode. Stuff goes on, but nothing really happens.

Much like my writing.

I wasn’t a big fan of the show, but the concept is interesting to me. You see, in my writing, stuff goes on, but nothing huge happens. Nobody jumps out of a helicopter over the Vatican with nothing more than a sheet of Visqueen, lands in a fountain and lives to tell the tale. Nobody jumps out of anything. They have families and lovers and dads and they live their lives. Some yelling happens, some crying sometimes. People rag on each other and also admit they love each other. It’s life, granted it’s life that has sprung (not fully formed) from my fevered brow, but these characters that take up so much of my time and imagination are people. Even my fantasy characters have strengths and flaws.

My point? Do I need one? Maybe my point is that I don’t have the kind of imagination that produces superhero symbologists or international spies. Honestly, if I had the free time to research the information I’d need in order to credibly produce a mystery or thriller, I’d have to be of independent means. What I do know about is a smattering of topics, ranging from veterinary medicine, horses, music, quilting, gardening, to art, and other really trivial stuff. (No, seriously. I kick ASS at Trivial Pursuit.) I do want my characters to live and breathe, not be caricatures of a type, or one-dimensional. If I could do that AND write an awesome adventure/thriller/spy/police/self-help (okay, maybe not that last one) novel, maybe I’d already have a publishing contract, book deal and movie options lined up.

Still, I’m sticking to my guns. I write for me first. I can’t stop, so I might as well does what makes me the happiest.

See, there’s that happy ending we always secretly hope for in a story.



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