I’ve reached a pace where I simply expect myself to write a story every day. This, for me, is heaven. Making up tales and then writing them down is exactly how I most enjoy my time. The best excitement is searching for and finding that next idea.
Fiction is not the way I make my money, and quite honestly, not the way I ever want to make my money. Searching for ideas that would please others, that would interest anyone else, that would be worth cash dollars, would be a horrible, uninspiring task. Writing for money is a sure-fire way to ruin writing. I’d rather eat dirt.
When I still don’t have an idea and I’m searching around for one, the most amusing thought is a fear that all the stories have already been told. There is nothing left to write. What a joke. Even if the only possibility was retelling every story already written, there would never be an end to the tales. I laugh, because it is a failure of imagination, thinking the limit has been reached.
One of the things that happens naturally in my constant search for stories is a subtle rotation of type. Whenever I finish a story of one kind, I am immediately drawn to find a story of a different kind. Something light is invariably followed by something serious. Even as a genre writer, I am constantly pulled toward opposite ends of the genre. Telling the same story twice just seems intensely dull, unless there is a completely different kind of story intervening.
I think I’ve written four stories in four days and seven stories in two weeks. I don’t bother to count, because the past is no help in plotting the future. The fans don’t matter. The readers don’t matter. The critics don’t matter. The numbers don’t matter. All that matters is the next story.
Where will it be … ?