I’ve noticed a weird thing recently. No matter what kind of mood I’m in when I sit down to write, the quality of the writing itself is the same. It’s like I’m just a radio, and when it comes time to write the words just flow through my fingers onto my keyboard. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in my head, the words are the words. I’ve written funny scenes when I’m depressed, exciting action scenes when I’m tired. It just doesn’t matter. The book is what it is, and I’m just writing it down.
Of course, I know that can’t possibly be the case. I know that the quality of my writing is a function of my study and practice of the craft over the last two decades. I know that the story I’m writing now I wasn’t capable of writing ten years ago, five years ago. I know that at a neurological level, I’m making up a story, not recounting something that actually happened. I’m deliberately choosing each word I string after the one before it.
Only it sure doesn’t feel that way.