My love of books started when I was an awkward little girl. It was my escape, my time alone with imaginary people. And not much has changed: I still like to read, in solitude. I just now write about imaginary people too—still happily by my lonesome.
I think most of us writers like that part: the just-me-and-my-story thing. It’s the time when you are free to stink, mess up, and take chance on what you in your gut feel is the right move. And nobody's watching. You can always change your mind later. It’s just you there, right?
I do find it’s nice to go out and meet your fellow writers, though—I’ve been missing that lately. A little too much time by myself, and that’s not good. You need your peeps as a writer.
But then I talked to one of my writer pals who had the opposite problem: too many voices of well-meaning critique partners in her head made her lose her mojo. She was frozen. The just-me-and-my-story thing had turned into a mental intrusion by Everyone. Not good. You know what I’m talking about if you’re a writer.
I’m hoping she’ll find her mojo. This writer friend is very talented—I predict she’ll find her way to the shelves soon. Until then, here’s some good juju for her mojo.