It’s that time. It’s NaNoWriMo.
Not just that, but I know a lot of authors right now rocking big word count and page count on projects unrelated to this month of novel-writing debauchery. So, I thought — hey, you know what? Let’s pluck the second writer’s prayer from the pages of REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY and see if it doesn’t get some folk’s inky juices a-flowing. (The first writer’s prayer — “The Penmonkey’s Paean” — is right here if you care to read it. Feel free to spread ’em around if you think people might like ’em.)
Oh, quick sidenote:
500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER is coming soon. (Cover here.)
Anyway. Here, then, is the Inkslinger’s Invocation.
Repeat after me —
I am a writer, and I am done fucking around.
That which has prevented me lingers no longer. I am wind and storm and lightning and I shall huff and I shall puff and I shall blow all the barriers down. Then I will drink whisky made from the fear-urine of my loudest detractors and find power in their disbelief.
I don’t have time. I make time. I reach into the universe’s clockwork brain and I take whatever time I jolly well need. I cobble time out of sticks and mud and the finger-bones of naysayers. I am a motherfucking time wizard and with a wave of my pen shall create universes to conquer. Pockets of possibility. Born of my desire to have them made.
Fuck doubt. Doubt is a goblin on my back. I will reach for him with my ink-stained hands and grab his greasy head and fling him into the infinite nothing. His screams will thrill me. The resultant word-boner shall be mighty, and with this tremendous oaken stalk I shall swipe it left and swing it right and sweep all the road-blocks and brick-walls out of my way.
My distractions whimper and plead, their backs pressed against the wall, but I am no creature of mercy. Triple-Tap. Mozambique Drill. Two in the chest and one in the head. I laugh as they fall because their death clears the way and gives me purpose.
I will put myself on the page. I’m all in, with every card face up on the table. I am my stories and my stories are me. I do not merely write what I know: I write who I am. I’ll reach into my own chest and pluck out my still-beating heart and milk its juices like an overripe grapefruit. Squish.
That’s my blood on the page. The helix-spirals of my DNA wound around every word, every character, every plot point and page number. If CSI came here right now with one of those UV lights, you’d see the spatters and stains of my many penmonkey fluids because I can and will no longer contain my seed. You’ll take my inky seed and you’ll like my inky seed. It is a delightful moisturizer.
I do what needs doing. I ride the Loch Ness Monster through the gates of Carthage. I learn forbidden power words from the Undead Shamans of the Tulsa Underground. I kung-fu-kick a hole in the fabric of space and time and stick my head through to see what exists on the other side. I eat planets. I drink oceans. I piss rivers and I shit mountain lions. No task exists that I cannot accomplish on the page.
I write from a place of honesty. My stories are lies that speak truth.
Nobody tells me who I am or what I can’t do. I tell stories. I write characters. I make true shit up out of thin air. And nothing is more perfect than that.
My doubt is dead.
The dream is no longer a dream.
My desires are made manifest.
This is my reality now.
It’s time to load the guns, brew the ink, and go to work.
Because I am a writer, and I am done fucking around.