My mother once insisted on knowing how I could write day in and day out. I didn't really know how to explain it. It's sort of hard to explain writing to non-writers sometimes. Like the question: where so your ideas come from? How the hell do I know? They just come. They simple show up and say, howdy, how about you do something about me or I won't go away...
My best analogy for explanation to my mom was my mind is a gumball machine. And I truly do sort of see it that way. A gumball is always lined up to drop so to speak. When I write it, the gumball drops and the next one nestles up at the top of the shoot ready to go. How do dentists drill teeth and doctors suture wounds and butchers cut meat and checkout boys bag groceries? They just do.
I've been called prolific. Sometimes it's said in amazement, sometimes it's condescending, sometimes it sounds dirty like I'm cheating. However you want to mean it, I just take it as fact. Like she has blue eyes or she has dirty blonde hair or she's tall. She's prolific. I have a lot of gumballs in my um...head. I think most writers do if you want my humble opinion.
Sometimes the machine goes wonky and drops a bunch of them at once. And then I'm sliding around in a whole mess of colorful ideas trying really hard to grasp one and flailing about like someone in a ball pit (think kids' birthday party). That's where I am right now. My brain has dropped about seven ideas and I'm rolling around surrounded my vibrantly colored plots and feeling a tiny bit desperate.
Also, for a few reasons, feeling a bit down and out (but not in Beverly Hills, alas). I'm trying to write, de-funk my mood and not give into the icks. Something I can do very easily if I let myself. So that's about it for now. I'll just sit here dressed in purple (Go Ravens!) and try and work on one ball...um...at a time. Yeah, see, that's an analogy that went too far ;)