I write books of poetry, I have written many short stories, I blog a lot, I comment on other’s blogs, and I manage a Ning site, but the idea of churning out 200 pages for a novel did not excite me, before Barack Obama’s election.
President elect Obama inspires me on many levels. He should be a source of inspiration for most Americans and he is arguably one of the best role models in contemporary America. I never suspected however that he would be my source of inspiration for an erotic mystery novel.
I was shopping at Eastern Market the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I ran into a former client. She is one of the most brilliant people I have ever met but has a near psychotic fear of success that has relegated her to a subsistence level existence for the past twenty years or so. We talked for a while, shopped for some vittles, exchanged numbers and parted.
My Muse, Ex Parte
I walked away disappointed that she was not doing anything special but the exchange we had inspired me surreptitiously. On my way home I began fashioning the first ideas of the novel, loosely based on the election of the nation’s first black president.
As soon as I got home, I started writing. The words flowed from my brain to my hands. After Thanksgiving, I stayed home from work several days. I obsessed over the story day and night. I wrote continuously for 40 days. By January 1st, I had completed almost two thirds of the novel. On January 2nd, my computer crashed! I had had the wherewithal to write the story on a flash drive but my “pen” had run out of ink. It took me over twenty days to restore my lap top. By that time however, my momentum, nay my obsession had withered away. I had missed my self imposed deadline for completion (inaugural day) and my editor, whose mother had passed, a few days before Christmas, was no longer interested in helping me with my project.
With all the red lights on the track, I got off the train.
In need of a new source of inspiration, I started watching spy movies. I went to Kings Books and bought Ian Fleming and Anais Nin. Reading, not writing was the only thing that could placate me.
It’s almost November again. I have a permanent hard on, after reading Nin and I have fallen in love with Ian Fleming. I’m about seven eights through the novel and have at least 2 more novels, revolving around my main character, in my head, but I just can’t sit down and put the story to bed.
The only good part is: my writing has improved but that’s kind of like being Mario Andretti with an expired driver’s license.