Selected Other Writing from Richard Gazala
Musings
A Guest Blog Post at Gelati's Scoop
The typical image of a working author is a slightly deranged person hunched over a keyboard in a lonesome subterranean room, his haggard face lit only by the cold azure glow of an unsympathetic computer screen. Between intermittent flashes of madcap productivity, when characters laugh and cry and cheat and lie and thrive and die through the mystic conduit between the author’s fevered mind and the plastic lettered keys his fluttering fingertips rap, this reclusive soul wails and moans at blank walls and musty ceilings and threadbare carpeting. He waits in silent, endless agony for inspiration to stop shunning him so cruelly.
To the extent this image bears accuracy, it’s not the poor author’s fault. It’s not his choice. Blame his Muse.
Most Muses prefer their authors very lonely and irretrievably co-dependent. They are such faithless trollops. They keep fiendishly irregular hours, flitting away for interminable days and nights at their wicked whims, always whispering pretty lies about when they’ll be home next. They pique their jollies through the sadistic pleasure of making their simpering authors beg for their incessantly divided and fleeting attentions.
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“Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” George Orwell
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“Trust your demon.” Roger Zelazny
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