Once upon a time, before I associated bathtubs with gin, I associated them with books.
I have a confession to make: I eat weird. And yes, this will relate back to writing.
In honor of National Love Your Pet Day, I give you: ‘Writing Is Hard And My Cat Does Not Give A Crap.’
I’m still getting used to telling people that I’m working on a novel without feeling completely ridiculous. But I may never cease to feel anxious about getting the dreaded question: what’s it about? I’m here to tell you that trying to give someone a synopsis of your book while you’re writing the first draft is like telling her about a weird dream you had last night that you only half-remember.
And we’re off! My workshop has officially started. I already feel like I’m almost a real writer: my idea mill is pumping out some interesting nuggets, I’m attempting to stick to a weekly work schedule, and I can effortlessly vacillate from complete confidence to garment-rending despair in a matter of minutes. In these latter times I find myself asking the big questions, like: Am I smart enough to do this? What if I can’t make this work? Is this what I really want? Who can I pay to make me dinner?
With the end of one year and the start of another comes the season of recaps and resolutions. For my part, I did make a little headway on my novel in 2016 – I took a workshop, got into an intensive, and, after initially failing at writing group, helped form a new one with some GrubStreet classmates. I even got a dozen blog posts up, and a few people actually read them. LOOK AT ME GO!
I am writing this post as a published author! Ok, fine, I wrote and illustrated a story and had a single copy printed as a gift, but I maintain that it counts.