Picture a film in black and white.
A grandfather clock, ticking loudly. The camera twisting to zoom in on its face.
Time. is. passing.
It’s been a week since I finished my novel and I wait with bated breath for the next round of reader response, spending my days catching up on correspondence, doing lessons for my creativity coaching courses, planning for our upcoming trips, and shoving my body out the door, into the frigid air, to the car, to the gym (okay, okay, I’ve gone once).
It’s in these times, these limbo-days, when one novel is drifting out the door and another one sits on top of my book-shelf, waiting to be read, revised, finished, that I never know what to do with myself. I jump around the Internet, make pots of chilli in the slow cooker, watch too many episodes of Bones in a row on Netflix, knit (of course), and read, well, there’s that, I read a lot.
But, really, I know, you know, we all know… Say it with me, folks: I should be writing.
Sure, I feel that prickling urge, but I’m not quite there yet.
Yesterday, I was cutting up celery for pasta sauce and into my head came the beach on the lake where I’ve just spent several months, weeks, days, hours.
A fictional beach, on a fictional lake, with fictional people. And yet, to me, they are real.
I could smell the water and hear the waves.
So, I wait.
I’m sure the book isn’t perfect, that it will return to me with more notes on how it can be improved.
Which is good, because it’s still alive. I realize I’m not ready to leave that relationship and spark up a consuming connection with the old friend that is my other in-process novel manuscript.
wait some more…
Well, I wrote this yesterday and this morning the urge struck to revise and send out a few short stories that have yet to be published. So, while you’re reading this, I’ll be doing that to fill the time, until I can turn back here: