In a flurry and lit by flame of reaching the personal summit of publishing my first book in late 2019, I wanted to keep momentum by quickly turning around "book 2". I felt creative, things were flowing, travel, recognition and being seen by friends and people I hoped to call friend created a cocktail of inspiration. It was all happening.
Then the world shut down in the global pandemic and I froze. I'm now thawing after that "era" and other ice ages besides, with a sort-of done book draft, new bruises and tales to process, chew on, share or bury six feet under.
Book 2 feels nearly there, which as writers know, is a claim we don't make lightly. I have learned through writing, writer's block, and not writing, essential things: how to edit, how to be done, and how not to add lengthy self-doubt lags and endless editing rounds that do not guarantee that there will not be a typo on the very first page.
I still fight the self-diminishment reflex I was taught early and well. And this applies most to the messy organic stuff of creation that needs to be given an airing in private or semi-private along the way.
The only constant I know is change as big and dizzying as sea storms and you can't control anything out there, it's enough to try to manage what's inside us, right here before us, and in our own little worlds. So here goes.
We are all Fixed Stars / Life was a Riot
What's percolating?
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