I recently re-watched a documentary from 2001 about J.K. Rowling's inspiration for and progress to international stardom with the Harry Potter books. The series' incredible popularity focused the spotlight on her experience yet it is not so different from that of any author. Great ideas often appear out of nowhere, demanding to be told. They ensnare an author, holding sway over their mind. The intense drive to write in such moments is the purest form of elation, the rest of one's life standing in the way of performing the only activity that seems to hold any significance.

That is the inspiration part of the writing process. Most of what follows resembles homework more than the excitement of a grand adventure. Determined effort is key to finishing then crafting a story. It means deciding not to watch that next episode of your favourite TV show or spending your lunch writing since there's no other opportunity.

In addition to the challenges presented by time, an author's feelings for their work often resemble a bipolar disorder. In one moment, a piece can seem not worth dignifying with another glance and the next the author may be unable to believe that a section of such brilliance came from their own mind. Then there's the uncertainty of quality, the imposing voice constantly whispering that, just because you like it, does not mean anyone else will.

Given the personal investment writing demands it's miraculous that anything ever gets written. That's the amazing thing about artists – they are compelled to tackle the world, shaping it in their own vision for intellectual curiousity, the pleasure of exploration or simply because they're following a string of thoughts to their conclusions.

Of late I've been feeling down about my circumstances, in part because I have not had the energy to do any serious editing or writing beyond April Camp Nanowrimo. One of my newsletter followers, who is also an author, provided me with an honest review of Call of the Black Panther and offered me some pointers for future books. All of the input she provided was incredibly important but perhaps what mattered even more to me were her words of encouragement, author to author.

Essentially, she stated that it is tenacity and determination that makes an author and, the more I proceed on my personal literary journey while learning about others', the more I'm convinced this is true. A brilliant idea fades into obscurity if it is not developed and shared in an accessible way with others. The passion for authorship, which pushes one past the daily struggles and challenges, is what makes an author.

It's true that most writers will never even glimpse J. K. Rowling's economic reality yet that makes the act all the more special. No one becomes an author for the money so those who practice have to truly love what they do.

Since I was working on United We Stand or Do We for this year's Camp Nanowrimo, I was unable to create a proper second post for the month of April.  As a result, I have included a section from an early portion of United We Stand or Do We.  I've tried to pick a part that does not give away any spoilers but that also gives some insight into the tensions of the story.  I hope you enjoy it.

Upon waking, the group found that the atmosphere of the so dubbed ‘cherry blossom’ world bore no resemblance to the summery image such a name evoked. Instead, a bitter cold had very nearly frozen their hands and toes before they’d regained consciousness. Those who had slept with their faces looking down had blue, frostbitten features which the Life goddess speedily healed. Even after the sisters had assembled a more comfortable bubble of heat around them, each person was incapable of immediately shaking the cold that had seeped into their bones. Around them the landscape was covered in at least four feet of snow, roofs and the tops of lampposts the only signs of life. To make matters worse, the blizzard that had no doubt resulted in such a reality was still blasting its unforgiving fury against the goddess’ temperature shield.

“We need to find shelter!” Alvin shouted over the noise, his hands rubbing up and down his arms.
“Come on,” Cynthia said around a small fit of coughing. “I have a place where we can stay.”
Although the Life goddess had been the one to express knowledge of this abode, it was Lilia who led as Cynthia lagged behind the posse. Luke and some of the others took periodic glances back at her. The woman was pale, sporadic shivers racking her immortal body. Apparently the transport had negatively impacted her recovery more than she was willing to let on. As the minutes dragged by, however, most opted for focusing on getting through the deep snow rather than observing the state of the goddess. After nearly twenty minutes of trudging, Luke cast another look in the woman’s direction, empathy for her weariness causing him to shorten his stride so he could walk beside her. He wasn’t really sure if his support would matter very much but at the very least his presence could provide a little extra body heat.
“The trip seems to have taken its toll on you,” he whispered, extending an arm out to help steady her.
The Life goddess barely acknowledged him, shoulders rising in the subtlest of shrugs.
“I may not be a doctor but I don’t think this is something you can just shrug off!” Luke hadn’t meant to raise his voice but this woman was being, in his opinion, unnecessarily distant. It’s not like they hadn’t already had some close calls together.
“Well it’s not helping that a bloody blizzard is going on is it? Just leave me alone, please,” For a moment she’d lost her composure, a disturbing mixture of pain, anger and sadness flitting over Cynthia’s youthful features. Then she closed him out again, an almost perceptible wall asserting itself between them.
Anger surged up to meet her response. Why was she getting upset with him? He was just trying to help. Lengthening his stride, Luke once more put several feet between himself and the goddess. Finally, having covered ground in double the time it would have taken in good weather, Lilia gathered them on the veranda of a large house, each huddling as close as their comfort zones allowed. As the youngest sister knocked on the door, the elder pushed herself to the front, neither looking like goddesses as they waited at the door of a very average looking house. The door was opened by an older man who gave an unorthodox cry of amazement upon recognising them. His mature face sported a neat gray beard, round glasses and jolly expression.
“Bless my soul, come in Cynthia, I’ve been expecting you and your friends!”
“Thank you, Raymond,” Cynthia replied, entering the hallway. Each of her companions quickly followed suit, the ones behind having to push the ones in front forward as the former were struck dumb by the impressive entryway. Marble engravings, quirky antiques, and unique architecture met their eyes, the structure’s interior elegance at odds with its rather plain exterior. Although the construction and layout of the building were certainly a marvel, ultimately, each was just glad for the warmth.
Closing the door behind them, Raymond opened his mouth and spoke in a booming, yet cultured voice, “Master Alexander, they’ve arrived.”
Almost immediately a teenage boy appeared in a doorway at the end of the entry hall, his lanky body adorned in a dark green suit with yellow tie. Short chestnut hair neatly framed his head, the warmth of his deep brown eyes somewhat contradicting the stern expression on his face. He passed his gaze over each in turn, taking his time to size up and quantify everyone. His serious look only altered when he caught sight of Cynthia.
“What happened to you?” he inquired, in the same breath bidding that Raymond fetch towels and blankets.
“Cherry blossoms and flowers in abundance.” Reilly said, glaring at Hoshi.
“What?!” she responded. “How was I supposed to know it was mid-winter?!”
Smiling to himself, Alvin gave her a nod.
“Actually, snow is unusual in this world. Extremes of weather, creatures or food – well most everything is unusual. I’m afraid the fact that we’ve met such hostile conditions further proves that balance is unraveling. I hope how to go about protecting this realm speedily reveals itself.” Lilia accepted a towel from the butler, following Alexander and leading the others farther into the house.
“You mean you don’t know what we’re supposed to do here!?” Reilly’s mood had obviously not been improved by his one attempt at humour although, in this case, he was also echoing his companions’ thoughts.
“We have an idea. Cynthia has spent a good amount of time here learning about its patterns but, even for goddesses, understanding the intricacies of worlds so diverse and unique is not easy. The presence of Luke and Alvin’s Shadows will help to unearth the process-,” Raymond made some gesture that the girl apparently understood, “-but before we can tackle any of that we must be well fed. Come, Alexander le Werre has graciously opened his house and stores to our cause. Let us adjourn to the kitchen and refuel.”
Whatever doubts the Alestans had in the sisters’ plans did not prevent them from eating a healthy amount of the delicacies presented in the le Werre dining hall. Cynthia went almost immediately to the privacy of an upstairs quarters leaving Lilia in charge of the ragtag group. Presently, clean sets of clothes were offered to the guests as well as cozy, if not luxurious sleeping arrangements. During the meal it was explained that the goddesses had been acquainted with the le Werre family for several decades, Cynthia in particular a regular visitor to the world of Remada.
After dinner they sat in various poses of comfort in the living room, engaging in casual conversation as their stomachs took the majority of their attention. Alexander excused himself nearly immediately after dinner and, upon conducting a brief investigation of the house, Luke discovered that the boy had taken it upon himself to be Cynthia’s personal nursemaid. As he stood in the shadow of a stately pillar, the man observed Alexander dashing from the kitchen to the bedroom with bowls of hot water, towels and various collections of herbs. Touched by the boy’s dedication and struck with renewed concern for Cynthia’s condition, Luke intercepted the lad and offered his assistance.
The boy declined in the utmost polite manner, stating that it was his appointed duty to care for the goddess and that it could be done by no other. Although Luke inquired further of the stipulations regarding this service, his questions were met with empty responses. Raymond’s sudden appearance resulted in Luke being ushered back into the room where the others were congregating.
“Why is she so sick?” he asked Raymond.

“I cannot answer you.” The elderly man responded without the slightest intonation.
Yeah, Luke said to himself, more secrets.

To further illustrate that life has no concern for plans, the story I intended working on for this year's April Camp Nanowrimo has been unseated by another.  At least it was second on my list to finish and, as long as writing is being done, completion of my Camp goal is an accomplishment, regardless of the story.

Camp Nanowrimo is a child of the Nanowrimo held in November when authors are challenged to write a novel in a month.  The Camps allow an author to choose their own word goal as well as participate in cabins where ideas and support are available.  In my increasingly busy life, these structured writing events help me to continue making progress on new material.  Usually I prioritize editing since working with established material is a bit easier to fit into a schedule.  Having a writing goal does not always inspire the muse, but writing something is better than writing nothing at all.

The story I'm working on is United We Stand, or Do We.  Although the bulk of the material was written in my high school days, portions of it must be completely rewritten if they are to be incorporated.  The final section is in this situation as it suffered most from my lack of experience and contrived, teenage notions.  I find it difficult to determine whether the content I create in Nanowrimo is any good yet cannot deny that it is at least a foundation on which to build.

United We Stand, or Do We will be one of my most challenging stories to bring to the world (even after I decide whether or not it needs a new title) since it is more of a social drama than what I'm used to writing.  It is influenced by anime styles, lending it to a visual medium as much as a written one.  Because of this, I suspect that it will make a public appearance much farther into the future than my more standard novels.  Still, it is a story near and dear to my heart which I hope the world enjoys whenever, and however, it may be presented.