Is it three years since I started writing my travel memoir? No, I think it’s at least five. And so many different outlines, iterations, names, deadlines. So the pandemic came along and I was furloughed from my job. A perfect time to write. Or not. Why not? I’m comfortable, healthy, lots of time on my hands…. But the writers’ block symptoms that all writers experience every now and then: distraction, avoidance, lack of focus, stress, frustration seem to have grown exponentially. That’s the bad news.
There’s good new finally…please let it last. Just lately, now that I’m all moved into my comfortable new house and have created some cozy writing nests, my muse seems to have returned to my shoulder for at least part of most days.
My book is drafted. Raggedly drafted but the base of everything I want to include is there. There are problems. The first one is that I’ve written double the number of words I can possibly include. An online writers’ guide claims that only a writer of JK Rowling’s repute could get anything published with the number of words I have…. You can see the editing job ahead of me.
There is one other problem. I seem to have two different stories/themes going on. That is large. Who knows what I will do?
Now however it is Friday night which no longer means what it use to…nevertheless that pleasurable feeling of having a weekend ahead hasn’t disappeared yet…and hopefully I’ll be back at work before it is all gone. I’ll watch PBS news shows for awhile tonight and then an hour or so with an Australian detective show on Acorn, and finally I’m going to bed with Barack Obama and a Sudanese detective. It’s how I travel and deal with politics these days. The Obama book is really fine. I will download Michelle’s book to Audible this weekend so I can hear her story as I walk my three to six miles next Tuesday at the gym. So I’m okay. Life is goodish. We have Joe, Kamala and a vaccine. Let’s not get impatient I say to myself.