Approximately 90,000 words have flowed from my brain to the page in these short chilly months of 2015.
I am intimately familiar with my characters’ lives, while knowing little of my friends’.
On New Year’s day I crawled into a hole with my computer and have emerged sparingly. It’s bright out there.
This morning when I lifted my head from its insufferable arched position, seventy five degrees from the screen of my laptop, my neck nearly frozen into Ichabod-like posture, there was a new season outside the window. Ah Spring. So soon? I am not done.
Over the last few months, my hands and brain have gelled into an almost unnatural state of synchronization. When I speak to an actual person, I feel my fingers start to type my words under the table.
My palette has shrunk: Tea, I’ve decided, counts as breakfast. And sometimes lunch. Hard cider counts as dinner.
My dog, poor un-walked old girl, grows fatter at my feet while my I spin my tales.
I have a growing fondness for the girl in India who mentors me through my many Microsoft problems. I chat with her often, more often than with people in my hemisphere.
Of course, I’m not actually sure whether she is real, or I invented her several chapters ago.
The hours add up.
The pages increase.
My bank account stays unembellished.
My hopes rise and fall and rise again.
In the morning, I am an optimist, the new John Green for youth, the Alice Munroe of Sonoma, the next crazy break through novelist.
At night, I reread my words and cringe, apologizing to the universe for this dribble.
Madness is a known side effect of writing. I am aware.
I am a novel writer; I would not have it any other way.