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I did all eleven things on my to-do list, plus two scheduled appointments, plus a whole bunch of comic stuff that was due, plus sorted stuff on the kitchen island, and had a staff meeting. It’s beginning to feel like a job around here. I’m a writer, we’re supposed to spend all our time alone, being creative and morose. We’re not supposed to have a staff, or have meetings, or phone conferences, or . . . The real world of a successful writer is just not exactly what you think it will be. It’s a lot busier. It’s full of a lot more people, and more interruptions. It’s a lot more like, well, work-work.
I actually have a daily planing calender this year. I’ve never had one before, but I have so many different projects, and more bids for my time coming in almost daily, that I just can’t keep it all organized. I have one of those calenders that has the time on one side from eight in the morning until seven at night, and a space to the side for notes. I’m using it for my to-do list. Because let’s face it, by the time I’ve filled up that space with things to do, I won’t get more than that done in a day. Nope.
Tomorrow already has one business phone call scheduled, but at the top of the to-do list, and so far all by itself is BLOOD NOIR. I gotta get that out of the house. I’ve reached that point with the edits that I just need it out of the house. I always get sort of blue when I’m editing, because to me the book is done. I know everything that happens, and we’re just sorting commas, and putting in research. But the book is done, so my interest is elsewhere. Where is my interest? Merry.
I had to stop at about fifty pages on Merry, and due to the edits, and other obligations, I haven’t been back to it, but it’s really what I want to be doing. I’m like most creative types if I’m bored it’s trouble. Interest me, and it’s great, bore me, and I so don’t care. I do my work, but it’s grunt work, and I’d much rather be painting the Sistine Chapel, then painting the trim on a house. A new book is like painting the Chapel. Editing is making sure you don’t get the trim color on the wall color; tedious. The holidays slowed me down, and now I’ve fallen into the Sloth of Despond. Most writers know what I mean, when you just feel like you’re slogging along and the book will never be done enough to be, well, done. It’s the time when you either start editing when you don’t need to, or when you throw your hands up and get it out of the house before it’s ready. Either holding on too long, or sending it out like a premature baby to shiver in the cold. Either way, not good.
I’ll try for some perspective tomorrow. For tonight, Say good night, Gracie. Good night, Gracie. (If you didn’t get that joke, then you don’t know your television history.)