“Every once in a while, but not often, you can sit down and write a thing that you know is going to stand people’s hair on end for the rest of their lives—a perfect memory of some kind, like a vision, and you can see the words rolling out of your fingers and bouncing around for a while like wild little jewels before they finally roll into place & line up just exactly like you wanted them to…. Wow! Look at that shit! Who wrote that stuff? What? Me? Hot damn!” — Hunter S. Thompson, Kingdom of Fear
I remember that feeling. Vaguely.
I still get it, though nowadays I often feel that with my writing, I’m talking in a vast, empty, darkened room. There’s a party going on next door and I can hear it, muffled, through the walls, but I don’t have an invitation and I can’t find the door out of the room I’m in, anyway.
I don’t want to go next door. I like your room.
Stay as long as you like, you’re always welcome.