I wrote a book this week. Or, maybe it was last week? The days seem to run together when I’m writing well. Hours go by before I stiffly realize daylight has faded.
I don’t know if the book is any good. I began writing it at the end of last year and thought it was a hoot. It incorporated everything that a cozy or a traditional with cozy elements needs: small town, a woman finding herself or doing something she’s not particularly comfortable with, nice language, mostly nice characters, food with a twist…you’re getting the picture. Then, my mother died and I stopped writing.
The words didn’t flow. The ideas came and I dutifully wrote them on a sticky or on a note on my iPad, but I didn’t look at them again. Short story contest and anthology deadlines came and went. Still, I didn’t write.
People asked me how my new book was coming and I told them the truth, “It’s not.” What was going well was my mah jongg playing, eating out, exercising, TV watching, volunteer meetings, traveling, and solitaire playing.
I hit my head (okay, let’s pretend I hit my head), chortled, and wondered “How stupid could I be?” I edited and rewrote and suddenly I was beyond the point at which I’d stopped writing.
For the next ten days, I wrote with minimal breaks. I turned down invitations to play mah jongg and begged off attending meetings or long lunches. My fingers flew across the keyboard in beat to whatever music was being played on the Showtunes channel. I finished. 72464 of my own words.
The book will need to be edited and revised before I’ll send it searching for a home, but I held a hard copy of the manuscript in my hand today and I smiled. Good or bad, I am a writer.