Writing a novel, or three, is a thing of two spirits, always. Fits of writing between plot-knot doldrums, windfall publishing offers poisoned by exploitative financial terms, and promise of glory cut short by reality on a week-to-week basis. While my publicists work on their pitches and send advances review copies (ARCs) hither and thither, I am left to sit on my hands. This might be alright for some, but I’m not made for sitting still. One of my recent ex-manfriends conveyed I have Stage IV Wiggles. I don’t think the dude meant it as a compliment either.
Idles hands mean I have no external outlet to calm my ever-racing mind. Is publication A, B or C going to run a story? Or will no one? Will readers find my literary playfulness immersive? Or will I be chastised as tedious and self-indulgent? Will I find community among readers at sci-fi, fantasy, and gaming conventions? Or will I find nothing but hundreds of cold shoulders? There’s so much unknown before me and, without a means of work to distract me, I’m left to run countless and mostly unsubstantiated mental models.
Thankfully, as with most things, this too shall pass. Soon too. I’ll receive another chapter from my line editor for The Eggs Inside, Book II of the series, this weekend. That process is about 30-35% done. I’m due to resume teaching Catholic minors about biology in a couple of weeks. I enjoy that overall, though some days are more engaging than others. Most of all, I’m luckily taking some adorable monks to dinner tonight. They always manage to put matters into perspective for me. They’re grounding. After my attempt to lure them into a love of Ethiopian cuisine last week failed — miserably, I might add — they’ve opted for either Vietnamese or sushi for this week. We let the market (DOW) decide, where an up day meant sushi and a down day meant Vietnamese. It seems tech has carried the day, so tonight the monks and I will delight on raw fish muscle.
So much news-side on the near horizon. For now, I just need to wait and breathe.