Writing, for me, has always seemed a bit like a malarial infection. It is a disease, once contracted, that will plague one all one's life. There will be times of intense fever when the need to write overpowers all other needs except perhaps air and water, and then spaces of remission when a person can act almost normal. There are difference, of course. I don't suppose that anyone would have ever paid me to contract malaria.

The HOW of managing this affliction, scribbulus malarius, varies from writer to writer, and I hope to solicited opinion about the best forms of treatment from some of my writer friends. I have found that it simply is best to give in and let the process take me when it is ready. I close my eyes and think of England-- or any place else the muse has settled on. Very touchy things, those muses. Refuse them too often or too much, and then end up crawling out on a ledge and threatening to jump, thus abandoning you forever... and being muses-- and a writer having imagination-- the threat is usually believable and effective. My muse is very rarely ignored.

Be aware going in, that if you choose to pursue the goal of writing for publication, that there will be many obstacles. Of course, there are the obvious ones; perfecting your craft, finding a publisher and agent etc.. But there will be subtle ones too. Finding your voice when teachers or critique partners wish to interject their own style. And facing down family and friends who feel that you are wasting your time by indulging your dreams. Perhaps some will feel that even if you succeed in being published, that you are wasting your time writing fiction. What these heathens-- ah, I mean, nearest and dearest advisors-- don't understand is that once infected, you have no choice about what to do, if you are to be happy. Writing is not simply an activity that you do; it is what you are. I like to point out to the nay-sayers that, as a side benefit to keeping ourselves sane, the fictional writer is supplying the world with grace-notes, and a chance to see the universe as it might be if we had chosen some other path. This is no small thing! In the most practical of veins, where would be if our forefathers had never dreamed of independence, and framed their vision with words powerful enough to sway the population? Or what if early writers like HG Wells and never imagined future worlds? Would we have computers or airplanes? Perhaps, more importantly, what sort of lives would we lead if we had no grace or beauty or imagination in them? How awful a world devoid of artists like Shakespeare and Da Vinci would be!