#writers process

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Thank you for your question, and here’s were I prove that I’m a bit of a weirdo when it comes to writing - or maybe it’s something that I have ‘learned’ in order to be able to do the writing I do...

I don’t really have an ideal writing environment. I mean, I have deams that I think my writing environment would be, (think log cabin in the mountains somewhere), but the reality is I write wherever I happen to be when I have a moment to write, and I write whenever I have a moment to do it. If I didn’t - there’d be no writing done at all. I learned to adapt I guess.

When I started writing (as a kid) I wrote in my bedroom - which I shared with my sibling, so I didn’t always get peace and quiet.

When I returned to writing many MANY years later, I was in a relationship where my partner really didn’t value my writing at all - didn’t really value anything much at all actually. I had to learn to write amid noise and constant interruptions.

When we separated, and I went back home, writing was back in my bedroom, which at least was quieter, but no less interruptions.

Now I’m lucky to be as close to that dream I mentioned up... ^ there somewhere - fairly secluded, with someone who cares about my needs a great deal, and gives me time to write, encourages it. The interruptions now come from animals who have somehow learned to tell the time and gods forbid that ‘mummy’ should not see to their needs when they expect it.  The interruptions also come from adulting which is not as amusing or endearing as needy pets.

Alice Munro, The Paris Review 

In the same interview, she talks about writing in her and her husband’s bookstore: 

I used to have a muse. She was hot, her flame burned bright, thoughts quick, always on point, I wanted to possess her, wreck her. I didn't matter what the hour was or the topic or people surrounding us, it didn't. She just kept inspiring me, urging me on, completing my thoughts sometimes before I could muster to shape them into words.

It all crashed and burned, as it often does with a muse. Unattainable, breaks your heart, dances away from you when you have finally gotten close enough to touch.

I miss that. I miss having that one person who'll never be yours, who you can't trap or seduce into submissiveness, but she'll still be there every time you need it. Willingly. Because she is as fascinated by you as you are by her.

I want a muse. I need a muse. I want you to capture me and break my heart. Artistically. Because now I can't write, and I want to, but every plot, every word -- it lacks depth.

I should give up. I should go and try to find that spark, that connection. I should, I should, I should. I can't.

So now I am on my own.