I am a writer. Sometimes I’m a darned good one. Other times not so much. But I’m always trying, practicing, learning, reading–I work damn hard at my vocation.
And it’s all worthwhile when I get a Gift.
Some time ago on the old blog, I ranted about discovering that I’d lost a scene. A wonderful, incredible, moving scene that came out of nowhere for a book at least five down the line in my SF series had been lost in the hard drive crash, and somehow I didn’t have it backed up anywhere. That scene was a Gift, and losing it hurt.
(I did find a hard copy a couple weeks ago. But that isn’t what I’m blogging about.)
There comes a moment when it All Comes Together. For this writer, at least, and from what I’ve read, it happens to most of those who give their all to the task of creation. When all the threads you’ve been holding, separated by fingers, maybe a few held in your mouth while you try to weave them into that intricate pattern–when the threads give a little twist, and a soft voice says, “like this,” and the light hits your work just right and There It Is…
Melodramatic? Maybe. But that’s how it feels. And I’m fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time (butt in chair!) to receive Gifts every so often. That scene I mentioned above was one such. Two years it was missing, presumed lost–and I mourned it frequently. I thought about trying to write it again, and didn’t. Maybe if I’d gotten to the book and it was still gone, I would have tried. And maybe I would have given the plot a yank to try and get around it completely.
My friend BJ says the story is already written. We writers are just the ones trying to see it clearly enough to transcribe it into this world. I’m not sure I buy that. Most of my writing comes from my work–my planning, my practice, my sweat. But the Gifts…those come from Somewhere Else.
I think that’s what I’ve been trying to get through, in this long rambly post. Bear with me. 
As far back as I can remember, there have been voices in my head. I call them my muses, or more often just my “guys,” and I listen to them about writing. (They are not much help in anything else. Sometimes they don’t care to be much help with the writing, either. Sometimes they come up with the best stuff.)
I call them mine. But sometimes I’m not so sure. Because sometimes they are so damn good they give me chills.
A storm is gathering in my brain. I feel the pressure building, the gusts of wind, the spatters of rain. The clouds are piling higher, lightning skips about the sky, and one hell of an exhilarating thunderstorm is about to cut loose. I feel like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, up on the pinnacle with a wand, conducting a symphony of thunder.
November better hurry up and get here.
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