“Where’s my book?”
I still hear the question frequently, though less than last year, which was less than the year before. Will own the fact that I held a mistaken belief that my earlier drafts had more potential for publishing than they did. Also, I can write copious amounts but figuring that minimum 75% of that is drivel, it’s going to take a lot more copious drivel to get the job done. The good news is as an amateur writer, I can see my writing muscle getting…wait for it…stronger. Ha! what did you think I was going to say?
Saw a comment on FB from a friend, another writer, which I found interesting. We seem to have the opposite challenge about writing. I need to write everyday, obsessively, even just a little if possible, but have a demanding day job and other obligations that get in my way. I’ve been writing and rewriting this one project for close to 20 years now (along with a few others) and believe I’m finally learning how to tell the story. We’ll see how that works out for me—and for you my patient supporters—but I don’t think I’ll stop writing until I’m dead. It’s my drug.
I admit the quiet isolation of sheltering in place and social distancing is heavenly for an introverted extrovert who’s re-writing a novel for the umpteenth time. Good news is a solid draft for the 1st Act has been written and compiled. Now engaged in outlining Act 2. The end is a moving target which makes it fun. The process feels like yoga. Surrender, breath and wherever you are is where you are. I promise there will be a book at the end of this process, death be damned.
Here’s some more good news: Ozark Season 3 starts next Friday, March 27th. Stay safe and mind your manners. Coronageddon is upon us. If you’re a writer, make the most of it. Just effing write. And remember to always cough into your elbow. *hack, hack*
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