It's the tail end of August, but today it was cool enough in Chicago to wear a sweater over my short sleeves. Tonight, after much wriggling, resistance and gnashing of teeth, I did some writing and began to make a plan in my mind.
I can't help but think back to last year at this time. I started the September Blog Challenge, began a class on novel writing that helped kick my book in gear. I even outlined the entire book in one feverish session on a caffeinated Saturday. So much was coming together.
And then my Dad's death slammed into it like a car through a plate-glass window.
Three months of regular grief. Followed by February with its blizzards and influenza. Then three stolen months in the bleak. Right now, it feels like it's been longer than a year. It feels like so much waste. Like I'll never get it back.
I've never been particularly good at finishing what I've started. "Isn't working to her potential" was a frequent comment on my report card. "You have terrible study habits," my mom used to snarl.
But tonight, I'm trying to get past all of that and be brave. I'm going to keep writing through August and come up with some strategies for the fall and whatever follows. Get out that black-Sharpied novel outline from last September and see if I can pick up a thread somewhere. Anywhere, please.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment