I am on vacation this coming week. I'm spending it at home alone, so it's time to get back to working on my novel. After all, it won't write itself. All the time in world spent thinking about doing it doesn't put words down on paper.
I've been hoping for some divine inspiration - some type of "awe ha" moment where the light bulb clicks on and everything becomes clear on how my story finishes. After piddling around for several months I've concluded that novels are not written that way. Novels become novels because someone constructs them.
My late college professor had Raymond Carver as a student many years ago. They became friends and traded phone calls and letters regularly for the next twenty years. The professor often told us that Mr. Carver's writing process usually involved large quantities of alcohol. Mr. Carver got it in his head that he needed the alcohol to improve his writing.
I don't drink, nor do I have any other self-destructive habits (unless you count an undeniable addiction to iced tea), but by golly I'm going to write a novel.
Wish me luck.
Don't worry. I'm now painfuly aware that luck has little to do with it.