So, I’m a little over halfway done on my revision of my novel. And I’ve had pizza. This means my head keeps nodding forward as I type and pretty soon I know I’m going to start spewing non sequiturs but I had to write something on this blog or I’ll begin to feel bad and eat more pizza and go into a cheese-induced coma.
On a completely different note, I’m pleased with the revision so far. The story is making more sense now than it did when I first wrote it. A very good thing since there were parts where I was shaking my head while I wrote it. “How on earth did that happen?” Well, now I know how and it flows nicely.
Eventually, btw, I am going to put more stuff in here that inspires me. I mean, I like Eric Johnson but he’s not the only one that gets the creative juices flowing (no offense, Mr. Johnson, wherever you are). I’m thinking of putting up other authors because there’s some nice ones out there. Ones I like, even. Some of them have been published and some haven’t. And some of them are fairly well-known. One of them wrote a novel I can check out from the library. So I did. I’ll write a review later.
Which brings me to jealousy. I’m sure there are many out there who were part of a group when they were younger and, while part of that group, shared dreams and hopes. And some had to put all that aside to work on things that, when viewed in the proper light, were more important than those original dreams. And they may try now and then to return to those dreams until finally they just become embarrassed because the rest of their life (you know… the more important stuff) demands they put those dreams into a little box called “Hobby” no matter how often they say “I’m still here!” to those friends who are still working determinedly on the original dreams.
And life calms down. Things shift. Improve. Well worth the investment. There’s time now to breathe and relax and go to the local bookstore where you see one of those folks you knew all those years ago has his or her name on the cover of a highly respected magazine in your field. And you remember when he or she was unknown. Like you still are.
And, for just a moment, your eyes turn green.
Until you ask yourself, is that why I do this? Is that really why I’ll sit in my living room, revising a novel no one may ever read while I try to keep an eye on my kids while they eat? Do I write because I want fame? Or do I write because I must? Do I write because it’s so much a part of me that even if the whole publishing world were to implode and my computer were to die I would scrawl stories on paper by hand to be read only by me and local friends?
Based on the last few years’ experience, it’s the last two. For me anyway. I have no idea why you would be jealous.
Okay, that’s the pizza talking. Must sleep. Will write again as soon as I can. And next time, I promise not to sound drunk on cheese.