A couple of weeks ago, I was catching up with April, a friend of mine from grad school. I told her that I was hard at work getting things ready for my novel, and that I was even about a month ahead of schedule. She said that she thought of novelists as rock stars.
I wrote back saying:
Hunter S. Thompson once asked why writers can’t be rock stars, so I just tap into my inner rocker as it is. But even Neil Gaiman (who probably is the closest thing writers have to a rock star since Oscar Wilde) said that writing just comes down to doing the work. That goes for every one from the old tweed and pipe Tolkien wannabes to the wild-haired Alan Moore types. Take away the bells and whistles, and it’s always about slugging onward and putting words on a page.
I got to hang out with some fantastic writer friends tonight (or should I say last night since it happened before midnight?), friends I hadn’t seen for a week, and others I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. Two things link them together: they’re excellent writers, and they’ve got rock star attitude.