Today something strange happened. I painted a scene from one of my novels. It perfectly captured the emotion that I wanted to imbue into the text, but it was done in ten minutes as opposed to ten months. Now that I have this perfect picture, I no longer feel the urgent desire to get it down on paper, and the lack of enthusiasm is scaring me.
Damn it, Jim, I’m a writer, not a painter . . . but this type of instant gratification is intoxicating. Could a picture really be worth a thousand words?