I have come to the conclusion that unless a writer has super powers or a clone, she just can’t get it all done and write a second novel that’s worth a dime in the summer time. Okay, that’s a bit dramatic. It IS done and the reality is I don’t know how writers manage to raise well-adjusted children, keep a spouse or romantic partner happy and still have the time to write, publish, and market a novel. And bounce back fast enough post-publication and sane enough to finish the second book in a few months. All during the summer months, mind you. What drives these prolific authors? These writers tend to pay their taxes on time, they run for PTA positions, hold full-time jobs, and run a cottage industry at home while they write. How the heck do they do it?
I grew angry, genuinely, with a sneeze today on the train. It was my own, and it rattled me wholly. It was as if I was smacked hard across the face. As if insulted, personally, and while ill-prepared with a clever retort. I muttered to myself fuuuck subsequently, and even spent some time dwelling upon its occurrence. But why, I wondered. What was I so mad at? Who?
I have always had a storyteller’s mind. It’s always whirling, taking things in, processing, rephrasing, rewriting. I’ve always enjoyed telling stories – via by page, by pen to paper or finger to keyboard to screen.
My friends in grade school used to call me The Weaver, for I’d spend sleepovers and slumber parties weaving stories of gore and horror, terrifying the socks off my friends better than any B-grade horror flick could. I’d have them deeply believing that the ghost of a little boy who died from the measles in the 1800s truly does wander my back deck, where the old farm house used to be. Despite the fact that we’d bulldozed the old farm house to build our new, modern home, the ghost remained, unable to find peace because he was gone too young and missed his mother. He wants revenge for us destroying the only home he’d ever known.