Just typing Moby Dick into a blog post got me more hits. Hey, yeah, I'm still reading it, although I put it down for about three weeks to read Veronica by Nicholas Christopher. I like MB; my speed stinks. I anticipate, yes, probably, looking like, mid-November to finish MB. "What!" you say (or shout). That's how slow I am. And I'll throw in another book or two to gum up the progress.
But I'm courageous to admit my effort will be drawn out, don't you think? I'm courageous to have this blogspot and let you in on the less-than-fascinating life of a hopeful novelist. I'm courageous to even write, period. I love and fear going to libraries and bookstores. Love the possibilities, the treasures underneath the covers, many I'll never open. Fear that I am nameless and swimming in a sea of writers. And most of the retail shelves are backlist. The new stuff never makes it out.
Dash it all. I'll get there. I'm persistent. If a writer doesn't have a pound (or ten) of it in reserve, forget it. Soon, it'll be more than Moby Dick that gets people to hit this blog. But hey, come all.