I've been draining myself the past couple of weeks. The novel I'm working on is a horror piece that started in NaNoland. I don't know why I started it. I'm not a fan of the genre anymore. My teenage angst has long since gone the way that teenage angst tends to go, so I no longer need the credit of Lovecraftian readership (although awesome at the genre, too much for me now). I don't enjoy the feeling of discomfort that the tension and the visualization elicits. But that's the story that wants to be told, and I'm going to do right by it and finish.
My unease with the genre got me thinking about stories that just won't be quiet. The type that pop up and try to hijack another story when you least expect or want it anywhere near you. The type that, despite your best effort, you find yourself thinking about when you should be concentrating on anything but. The type that seem to have a life and existence of their own, and won't quiet until they are committed to paper. I've heard various artisans talk about similar methods with their mediums, ranging from paint to stone. So I don't feel so odd when I view a story in that context.
That's not to say that all one has to do is sit at the computer or pen in hand and type or write away until all is completed. How sweet would that be? I've spent the most time and effort on this piece than any other one before it, even projects (labors of love and pets) that I've been writing on longer.
I think, though, that this one is different because of the amount of time and effort I've put into the crafting of it. I've felt the most professional with this one. And I think that it's given me good ideas and work ethic to go got back and blow the dust off of all the other stories that didn't have such a demanding nature.