My housing situation is unsettled once again. Looking for a place to live is not fun times. Anyway, I haven’t really felt much like writing lately, and there’s really no major need to do it, so my plan is to take October off. I’ll do a little bit every day, just to remind myself that I’m a writer, but no pressure. I feel, in some ways, like I’m finally starting to wake up and take a look around. For ten years I’ve just been keeping my head down and writing, and now that I’ve finally sold a book, I feel like I don’t have enough of that vision thing. I keep asking myself, “What kind of books do I want to write?” and I really don’t know the answer. The only thing that comes into my head is a quote from that St. Aubyn book I just read, Lost For Words, where the prize judge thinks to herself:
“she found herself wondering why any book should win this fucking prize she had become involved with unless it had a chance of doing what had just happened: coming back to a person when she wanted to cry but couldn’t, or wanted to think but couldn’t think clearly, or wanted to laugh but saw no reason to.”
Because I know that’s the standard that all books are held to. It doesn’t matter whether they’re literary fiction or science fiction or young adult or even picture book, nor does matter how clever or beautiful or well-observed a book is. All books need to fill some emotional need in the reader.
But, on the other hand, that’s a guideline that’s purely negative. It tells you what not to write. And what I need is the inverse of that. What should I write?
And I don’t know the answer to that question. But hopefully sometime during the next month, the answer will just pop into my head.