I guess I need to pick up the pace with the wip. I like this more organic – but not belabored – process after two seemingly back-to-back novel-writing marathons. My seven year old does not. I was watching some nice scripted comedy and he asked me why I wasn’t writing. O_O You see – he explained – the more minutes I write, the more work I’ll finish. Even if it doesn’t seem like a lot, every time I work on it, there’s less work left to do. This is the pep talk, people. He wants this book done. The (equally) freakin’ adorable part is that he’s been making books of his own. Itty bitty chapbooks of illustrated stories. It’s pretty much the thing I love most. Even more than him loving the same musicals over which I was obsessed as a kid (“Mama, I think Howard Keel’s voice is actually MORE beautiful than Milly [Jane Powell]!”). …was that the right way to punctuate that… it’s 2:54 in the morning. I care not.
ANYWAY. I… have no idea why this seemed like a good time to write a blog post. Probably because my life has been eaten by a host of responsibilities… most of which existed two weeks ago, but which with the additional one equal BUSY. Aaaand it’s been like
a jillion years since yeah that’s boring even me.
No, I was gonna say something about how there was this moment when I was … acknowledging/contemplating/ruminating/some word that means the thought I’m thinking… on how I’m a writer who is unpublished in fiction and that matters not to my son. He sees my daily life, my work, that’s all that matters. Mom’s a writer. He knows literary agents by name but that’s all secondary. There’s something so precious about that, in a way that differs from adults coming to the same conclusion. You know… FORGET IT, I CAN’T MAKE MYSELF CLEAR.