Lately, I’ve been doing most of my writing while waiting. My constant traveling has given me ample time in airports, planes and trains to peg out dialogue and paragraphs; so much so that “Year of the Rat” has hit chapter 13. My writing has actually been a source of comfort during these dull, yet stressful, times spent in waiting rooms. While others nervously clutch their tickets and watch monitors, I lose myself in a world of my own creation.
However, even though the quantity of my writing has increased in these non-picturesque conditions, I am unsure if the quality is of equal measure. There is a belief that the mood and the environment of a creator effects the creation-- that food cooked by a joyful chef is more delicious, art painted by a tortured soul more passionate. I’m not sure if I subscribe to this, but my inner consciousness wonders if the bickering of a couple who missed their flight, the harassed mother sniping at her whining children and the business man yelling on his cell phone will have an effect on charm of my novel.