I don't know....I don't have...I can't write....
It's been a long time. First it was the holiday, then it was the Small One's birthday, then it was the Mommies Club meeting...and so here I am.
It's funny, I find when I'm not writing I complain about it, but then when I do have the time to write, I don't. Over the course of the last however-long-it's-been, I've had hours, free time, breaks in my life where I could have sat down and plodded through something. But I didn't. I don't know why. I am ashamed of myself. This is supposed to be my occupation, what kind of an employee does that make me if I can't even sit down when I'm supposed to?
However, big fat however, I have been reading, blogs mostly, because where else can I possibly find people who discuss books and writing, and I think for the most part, I am not alone. There are other people out there, just like me, struggling to write, making time, finding time, giving up certain time. I totally envy those that can plow through chapters in a weekend, totally am jealous over those that find their muse at 4:30 in the morning and write before work, totally hate those that say, "I just finished my second book". I really hate those people. Okay, I take it back, I don't hate you, I'm just so desirous for a shot at being published, the green-eyed monster is eating at me.
As with all this time off, I've been thinking too, about how long it takes to actually write. I started the first book in October 08. I finished the first draft in July 09. I set it aside for a month and worked on the revisions during Sept/Oct. So, all in all, it took me about a year to write a book. In my genre, authors tend to write 2 or 3 books a year. How? I ask you how? Do you not have a life? Do you not have kids, dogs, parents, do you live in a vaccuum?
I have to ask myself is it because of the upcoming holidays? Do I think I'm wasting my time on my book when I could be baking cookies or creating holiday cheer? Spending time with my daughter waiting for Santa? I don't know.
Or is it simply because a round full of rejections told me I can't write. So why bother. Or maybe because a very good friend told me I would never be published if I wasn't a celebrity. (Yes, I am still reeling over that one) Or maybe because my own vanity got me in this in the first place and now I find I'm really just a hack.
I don't know.
What I'd really like, kind of crave actually, is a professional critique of my work. I've searched the web and have found a few sights that could help but only for a query or a chapter. I'd like a real person, real feedback. It's hard living in a one-horse town where no one reads or can even comprehend the true English language. (I kid you not.)
So, gentle reader, after telling you all my troubles, I feel much better, but I still don't know Jack.