So every once in a while someone will ask me how the writing is going.
And then I feel like a dick. Because the writing. The writing. The writing is sort of going and sort of not and it varies greatly with the week and the moon and the tides and thank goodness we finished House of Cards and the vicissitudes of my children and oh, look, a squirrel! And so on and so forth.
Or sometimes a dear friend will not ask how it's going, but will say something amazing to me that both encourages and terrifies me.
Like that they genuinely cannot wait for me to finish my book, because they are so excited to read it. Or that I have to write a book, because I am that talented. That they believe in me and they know it's going to be amazing. Do I actually know how terrific a writer I am?
And let me tell you, I am not one to avoid a compliment. I pour myself into them like a bath. I put them on and mince around in them like a new pair of shoes. And then I fold them up and tuck them in my treasure box, to be pulled out when I need them.
Also, it occurs to me that some might think treasure box is a euphemism, but it is not. I don't tuck them into my ladybits. I have an actual box of treasures.
But being complimented on something that I or feel like I should be doing more of or doing better...
Of course it makes me feel good. Of course I'm insecure about something that is so personal and that I want to do well and that necessarily relies on other people enjoying. But then I fear I am going to be a huge disappointment. Because the writing? The writing.
Here's what happened.
I started writing this suicide book, you know? You know.
And then I got so pulled down by all the suicide. It is perhaps ridiculous to even say that thinking about suicide daily is really depressing.
After a while, rather than writing because I was excited to write, I would dread it. I would procrastinate not just because I am an expert procrastinator, using a talent I have honed for years, but because when I sat down to do it, it felt bad.
I didn't want to be pulled into the suicide swamp every day.
So then I sat myself down and asked myself why I was doing this thing that I've been so excited to do if it was making me unhappy? Rather than feeling like catharsis, or feeling energized because I was crafting a good tale, I felt heavy and tired and sad. It was making me feel worse.
I gave it a little more thought. Because you know I spend a lot of time in my head and while I'm not always thinking deep thoughts, my head is a very loud place.
I thought about what I enjoy reading. And while the list is varied, one of the ways I myself enjoy escaping is diving into a good romance. An intense love story. Or maybe not even love but passion. And sex. Love doesn't hurt.
Or sometimes it does. But that's part of it.
Yah. So then, then I started writing a romance of sorts. Because oh, that is fun. A really fun project. A sort of off-beat or anyway not pure normal woman and an intense kind of man and I am still figuring out who he is. And maybe who she is, as we go along.
It's all fiction, of course. Because I have nothing to draw from.
And have I ever told you the interrupting pirate joke? No? It's for the best, because my timing with jokes is abysmal, plus I never quite remember how they go.
It's supposed to go like this:
Yes. But I never remember that. So then I'm all, "Knock knock!"
And you say, "Who's th..."
And I invariably wind up saying "Arrr! Interrupting pirate!"
Then I realize. "Oh! Wait...no. Let's start over. Knock knock."
So that's where I am. There are currently two parallel stories going and never the twain shall meet or maybe they shall intertwain and twine but for now I'm really not sure. And so how's it going? Um.
If that makes any sense or not. Arrr!