At the end of October I promised to post even more random and strange things since I would be up to my eyebrows in words for my self-imposed NaNoWriMo deadline. I currently have 33,000 words of the 50,000 required and I don't hate the story. This is good.
Anyhoo, an internet writing group/loop posed the following question: How do you explain your compulsion to write to non-writing friends and family?
My answer:
I drool and act edgy until my husband suggests I put in a little writing time.
No. I use the hunting analogy.
My husband is an avid deer hunter. When the season rolls around, he starts rack shopping, even if the freezer's full. One year we drove by a perfect Christmas card scene. Huge puffy snowflakes swirled in the air and danced in front of a brilliant moon. Trees glistened with icy glitter and a massive buck stood in the midst of it all. I was awed into silence.
My husband expelled a breath, and then said. "I wish I had my gun."
I need to write like he is driven to clomp through icy streams, sit in trees in negative temperatures, and shoot Bambi.
