I have begun my second novel. This one will be published.
For the first time, I think I may be writing something marketable.
In the course of my scribblings, I have come to one irrefutable conclusion.
Ideas are scared little things.
You have to put out bait for them and hide in the dark. Sometimes one will sneak out and sniff the air. And then you have to hold still and hope it doesn't see you, because if it does, it'll scurry away into the darkness again. You have to wait until it gets close, and then tastes a little bit of the bait. And still you have to wait. And sometimes you're lucky and one or two come out, if you're quiet enough and still enough, and hold your breath. And finally, when you can't hold out any longer, and they're starting to feel a little bit of comfort, and you think you're suffocating, and everything in the air is electric with the little buzzing, nibbling ideas tasting your bait, and you can just see the promising glow of their eyes -- then, just then, you can pounce. And maybe if you're lucky -- very lucky -- you might get one by the leg or tail. And it'll fight and writhe and try to scamper away from you. But you have to hold on tight and not let it go. And then you can feed it and try to gain its trust, and maybe, eventually domesticate and toilet-train it. And one day, maybe, after it trusts you and sleeps at your side and curls its little warm body against your mind when you rest -- maybe then it will let you use it.
Damn nitty little things.
That is all.