This spring has been a mightily busy one, with lots of traveling and working and of course, lots of writing. With a somewhat normalized schedule ahead of me for the summer, I’m fully engaged in the aim to finish my novel by the end of August. Not only is fall a great time for pitching, but it’s also, I believe, just about the point at which my sanity will bear no more strain.
So here you see me, writing like a madwoman. And it is magnificent. I wake in the mornings thinking about the day ahead of me, how to get through it quickly so I can sit down and write at the end of it. In the shower, where I seem to have some of my best ideas, I scribble feverish, disjointed thoughts on my waterproof notepad. On the bus, I become that girl who lets her belongings drop to the yucky floor as she writes sloppy notes on a too-small notebook. At work, I steal ten minutes here and five minutes there to add just one quick line or fix that nagging dialogue tag in my draft. The randomly acquired Hello Kitty flashdrive I use to transport my work drafts has become my most prized possession, and I hate all things Sanrio. I get home from work, walk the pup, assemble some kind of dinner, and hunker down in the office accompanied by said dog, a sliced pear, and a juice glass filled half-way with vodka. There, the work commences. If all goes well, I’m still typing away come midnight. Then I shower off the creative demons and dark juju, climb into bed weary but happy. As Robert Louis Stevenson said, “I know what happiness is, for I have done good work.” And off I go to dream of, about, and as my characters, waking bleary-eyed in the morning to do it all again.