This is why it’s easy to dismiss writing as “creative fun” rather than “work”. If someone were to take a peek at me during the percolation stage, they’d have reason to think I was joking around about being an author. I mean, look! He’s just staring at the screen, drooling and drinking a never-ending tumbler of iced coffee…
We hold expectations of ourselves that we import from stuff like TV, conversations, role models and the like. And if we think about them too long or too hard, we end up on our butts, too.
Here’s how it worked: I’d play through and etude, and 90% of it was okay, but then I’d get to that 10% where the shit would hit the fan. I avoided utter embarrassment by employing the musical equivalent of cursing under your breath so that your mother can’t hear you (which never fools anyone).
Some folks call their Inner Critic ‘writer’s block’ and, since this is such a well-known issue, accept the fact that their creative brain is diseased for at least the rest of the day and content themselves with email checking and Tumblr tumbling. The concept of ‘writer’s block’ has never made sense to me, simply because it’s not a valid excuse for other professions, so it shouldn’t be for mine, either.
So when you picture a writer as that guy who sits at Starbucks® sipping his Flat White®, waiting for divine inspiration to fill his blank word document, please know that I’m going to try to slap you through the internet. And I’m not gonna feel bad about it.
The debut story of Locke Lamora is gripping and crammed with an intense gamut of emotion. Though the secondary world is vividly realized, the characters are what make this novel shine. The dialogue is sharply witty and every motivation fits its corresponding personality like a snug winter jacket. Sections of intentional world-building stood out from the rest of the action, but even though this stole some momentum from the main plot, each instance of description was redeemed through later relevance. My only disappointment was in the main character, the titular…
Small things direct our lives, I realize. Minuscule impulses. An unimportant walk to the icy sea, a casual glance to the dark shadows, a tingle of curiosity. And like lightning out of a clear sky, the world is irrevocably changed.