It's past 11 p.m., not a good sign for a writer who goes to bed semi-early. I'm tired, but this blog has been calling me to give it a good helping of something
for a while. Hello, blog, here's a spoonful.
My toes are cold because I'm outside shoeless on my screened-in porch, a new addition to my life. I wish to report that my writing is flowing freely these days on the porch and that the next novel is just moments away from being for sale. No. Not the case. My life has become far too busy. And here is where I stumble: What do I give up to take back the writing time?
|Random cute puppy photo from my sis-in-law.|
My cousin asked me a few months ago if I made any money at it. You mean, writing books, I asked. He nodded. No, I admitted. Not the fake stuff. Not the stories from my imagination. Nor the poems. Those don't turn the lights on or put gravy on my potatoes, and that's why it's hard to justify the necessary concentration/time it takes to put out something good. My "product," if you will, has a process, as does every writer's. Mine comes out about the same way I read, quite slowly. I was never a quick reader. It takes me weeks, often, to finish a good book, even if it's a page-turner. I don't rush through reading, and this also makes me a slow writer.
Although these blogposts take me about 20 mins to draft. Why is that? I just basically spit them out at you. Sorry about that. Here's a tissue.
There's a chicken/egg catch, too. If I wrote more, I might get faster, and I might make more money, and then I could write more. You see where this is going. So, here I am writing. Is it working yet?