In-between bouts of copywriting, Ive been working on my novel.
I know, Ive been saying that for more than a year. That was research, and it was important; I couldnt have got here without that.
This is different. This is working on a book, like I remember it.
Last night I completely rebuilt my e-books, which Ive been wanting to do for a while now (especially now that I have an e-reader, and I wasnt happy with how the old versions looked; I knew I could create a better, more professional product). In the process, scanning through all those chapters and scenes and seeing those old, beloved characters names again, I was reminded of what writing a book was like at its best–when it wasnt about pressure or keeping up or proving myself or doing what Im supposed to be doing, or any of that. It was about creating, discovering, having a conversation with my creative subconscious.
And now, this work has thrown me right back into the middle of that activity and that feeling–just as fresh as fun as it was in 1998, when I was writing my first book. Only now, and especially now that Ive got over whatever was in the way and am into the work, I feel confident that I am more capable than ever.
Ive worked out a lot of this story.
And just now, as an exercise to ease into the story, to give myself the freedom and permission to write just for myself, without consequence, I wrote a missing scene from the story. And you know what? It was easy. I mean, it was work, sorting out the beats of the scene, then writing it, but it was work I can just do.
Craig just got home from his Spanish class and insisted on taking me outside to see the sun–a giant ball of orange gelato sliding out of sight behind the neighbours slate roofs. Now hes off to the shop for a minute and Im finishing this. The sky out my window is still pinky-orange. Across the street, a gull sits nestled beside a chimney-pot. Its a warm, kind day that feels like the start of summer, even though a theatrical fog is rising from the harbour.
All’s right with the world.