Don Delillo once wrote that every novel is "a bug-eyed race."  I'm not exactly sure what that means.  And I would be the last person in the world to try to generalize the creative process.

Books do not, in my experience, write themselves. And yet they cannot be forced into being, either.  You start with a premise, some characters- in my case, they are usually flawed so as to be believable- and then you place the characters in circumstances designed to move the story along and let them act in a way that is true to their nature.  Sometimes this feels like work and if so the result is likely to be unsatisfactory.

Then there are times like the other morning when I walked into the parking structure at my apartment in Houston and suddenly had an unbidden idea that propelled the story forward in a very natural way.  Oftentimes, as was the case then, that leads to a cascade of new ideas that are almost overwhelmingly compelling and original and at such moments I cannot think of anything but the story and how it will develop.  I'll just space out and am almost oblivious to everything around me.  I may be driving my car- not always the best of ideas when in the grip of my Muse- and will reach my destination with no memory of how I got there.  I am lost in the world inside my head.

Then there are long stretches when my Muse seems to have left me altogether and those are very barren and somewhat frightening times.  I shouldn't be scared, I know.  My Muse is silently at work, and will get back to me when she is ready.

I had about twelve months of wandering in the wilderness that ended back in November and now I have to stop myself writing too much on a daily basis lest I miss that small voice that is my Muse, telling me where she would have me go.

Just at the moment, the writing life is really very good.

Merry Christmas, y'all.