Writing. Not writing.
Hello. Still here? Good.
I’m here today not to talk to you. Sorry. I’m here today to talk to myself. Because myself? Needs a pep talk.
It’s been a while since I’ve written. I’m doing OK with entries here, and I’m keeping up with my job pretty well. But on a story, or in one of the novel drafts—you know, where it matters most? I’m not doing what I need to do.
I think it’s probably a good idea to say this publicly, since part of what I hope to do here is talk to other writers. And other writers must go through this. Right? RIGHT?! Sorry, whoo. Panicked there a bit. See? That’s the problem. The panic.
My novel An Elegant Hand is one draft (and one new title, according to one of my readers) away from being ready to send out to agents. Now I could get all hung up in the process of figuring out which agents, and what I have to send, all caught up in writing a synopsis, which I don’t know how to write yet. But that’s not where I am. Not yet. I’m one draft away. And as long as I work on something else or don’t work on any writing at all, that’s where I am. That’s where I’ll stay.
That’s a different kind of panic. It certainly opens the door to all brands of self-doubt.
I was going to go on at length here, but I don’t think that’s the right thing to do. The right thing to do is publish this and then open the document to work on my book. One draft away from thinking about getting an agent—I can’t give up now.
Writing. Not writing. (I’m thinking here of Kung Fu Panda: “Noodle. Don’t noodle.” Man, I’d rather watch Kung Fu Panda than try to write.)
P.S. I got an iTunes gift card for my birthday. What should I be listening to?