Disoriented no more

I said earlier that the muse had returned in a rather strong fashion. Maybe that's true or maybe I just do not want to do the work it takes to sell a book and instead hide behind writing something new as a way to avoid the misery and disappointment that is marketing a book.

I could spend time writing to agents, pitching the completed book, or I can write something new that keeps me from the painful concept of being told that which I had already put so much blood, sweat and tears into is not worthwhile.

But worthwhile to who? I mean, sure, agents are pretty good at what they do, but they are also a fairly pretentious group of people. to be fair, so am I. Pretentious as fuck about what I do, the process and quality. ask me what I think about certain types of writing like "fantasy" and "romance" genres and you are sure to get an earful comparing books like the Twilight series to the Spice Girls. Yes, they are pandering to the masses without the need to worry about the process. Teen girls will buy anything. We have been selling fantasy worlds to them for so long, who the hell remembers when we had quality books to read.

But there is a place for everything, I guess.

Maybe I am pretentious about this stuff because I live in Portland. After all, Portlandia exists because there is a lot of truth to the story lines. This town is like a hipster heaven. No, I am not a hipster. Too freaking old to be anything but what I am. Despite that, there is a certain pretentious existence in Portland. Beer snob. Food snob. Writing snob?

Either way, the one thing I feel is that when the muse strikes, you have to respond. There is no telling when she will decide to vacate your consciousness. Ideas are fleeting and sometimes lost forever if you wait to write them down. Yes, it may be fear that keeps the muse telling me new words, but they are still new words and I am but a slave to the muse. So, I guess I will let the fear disguised as a muse continue to push my fingers across this keyboard. Sorry.