Well, I missed the ball drop again in New York. Bedtime was at 9pm New Year's Eve. Unfortunately, the fireworks in Winston woke the dog and the dog went into a spastic fit. Needless to say, although I missed the fun and frivolity, I welcomed in the New Year in my own special way. Cursing the dog until 3am.
Yet, in hindsight, it was better than puking my guts out on the lawn after imbibing too much alcohol. Fond memories of New Year's past.
Anyhoo, now that the dreaded holidays are behind me, I've begun to ruminate on all I have to do this year.
Three more novels, at least 3, if not 5 short stories. Stuff to keep me occupied.
No, they're not resolutions, or even goals really. I'm just looking at it as work. You know, 9-5, or in my case 7:30 - 2:00. Maybe a little overtime after supper. Depends on how the day goes.
I read somewhere a long time ago, that "serious" writers write. They don't bitch and moan about it, they work through the writer's block, they keep going even when they're exhausted, or their new keyboard won't produce an 'h' unless hit squarely. (Stupid keyboard)
So, that's what I'm doing. Working.
I've had some people tell me I'm prolific because I bang out books like every other month. I wish. It's not true. Yeah, I've gotten better at how long it takes me to write something, but if I could bang them out in 60 days, I'd be a bazillionaire by now. I'm not quick, I've just learned how to write and edit at the same time. I've worked hard over the last three years to get to where I am. I'm not prolific, just kind of good at what I do.
I spent this morning looking at something I wrote over 4 years ago. My first novel actually. The beginning novel to my series. I've done some major rewrites to it over the last couple of years. But still, it sucks. Crazy POV's, head hopping, bad punctuation, bad research. I wrote it before I knew the rules. I wrote it because I finally had the time to write The End. I wrote it just to see if I could and have it make sense.
And now I have to fix it. Not fun. Just like when I was a chef. I hated making soup. And soup is easy, or so they say. It's just never been one of the things I like to do. Like rewriting. I have no desire to rewrite this particular book, but hey, it's the first one in the series, and if I don't fix it, the secrets I reveal in the last book in the series won't make sense.
So, I'm working. I mean, what else is there to life anyway?
reading on the beach, horseback riding, backgammon, chocolate, walking in the woods in fall, skiing, kite-flying, did I mention the beach?