Finding My Muse in Space On a Rainy Sunday


I never really know what to blog about lately, and as a writer, that irks me. I promised myself that I would really focus on my writing this year, and it’s been a struggle to maintain that focus. I don’t know if it’s anxiety or the stress of adulthood, but my writing morale has taken a beating because of it. I signed up for NaNoWriMo hoping that the temptation of a challenge would be enough to get my writing back on track. As of now, I’m halfway through my second chapter, and I’m happy with that slow but solid progress. I don’t know why I felt like following through with a book borne of a spontaneous joke on a hazy summer afternoon, but I did. It’s a really weird and sort of random science fiction novel and I have no idea what I’m doing, but I like it.

By saving his own life, by leaving, Silenus had abandoned his muse and condemned his pen to silence. Beginning work again, following that sure trail, that perfect circuit which only theΒ inspired writer has experienced, Martin Silenus felt himself returning to life…veins opening wider, lungs filling more deeply, tasting the rich light and pure air without being aware of them.”

  • Martin Silenus, The Fall of Hyperion (Dan Simmons)

The reason I always wanted to be a writer was to make up stories that moved me, amused me, and took me on faraway adventures. I wanted to write books that would have that same effect on others as well. I wanted to write because I love words and stories and imagination. As a weird, little kid in grade-school, books were my only friends. Growing up and surviving high school, they were my only refuge. Maybe it’s some sort of defense mechanism against the evils and hardships of the world, this escape into the book world, but it’s the world where I belonged, among the wizards and dragons, the torchships and cybrids, the pirates and the mermaids.

I thought I had lost my passion for writing, and that is, by far, my biggest fear in life. If I lost my passion for writing, for reading, for books in general, I don’t know who I would be. Writing is the only way I know how to truly express myself, my silly, arbitrary brainfarts, my awkwardly and irrationally intense feelings, and my borderline obsessive love of words. I don’t know if I’ll ever achieve my dreams of being an acclaimed published author, a respected book critic, or a Devil-Wears-Prada-esque publishing firm CEO, but I never want to lose touch with this love of writing again. And if that means assailing the internet with my late-night musings on finding my writing groove, then so be it. Thank you for putting up with it. πŸ™‚

*Bonus joke: Once upon a time, there was a merman, and he wanted to be a professional basketball player… But he had no legs. *ba dum tiss*Β – My Karl Pilkingtonest moment in life yet.


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