So, this is gonna be quick, because I’m on deadline and can barely find time to sleep, much less do anything except write this blasted book. Not that it’s the book’s fault, considering I’m the one who procrastinated and didn’t make myself BICHOK* and get the thing written sooner. I’m also the one who set the deadline and promised it to the publisher by that date, so if I were to miss it, it would be completely and totally my fault. But that doesn’t make me feel any better, because this is the first time I’ve tried writing a novel to a deadline (albeit a long one), and if I fail at it, then it’s gonna drive me nuts, especially when I have another deadline for the next book, and fail me twice, shame on me. I’ve already warned people that it’s likely any free time I have at GayRomLit (where I am now) will be spent writing, so I’ll probably be lugging my laptop and/or notebook around with me, and/or hiding out in my room between events to churn out words. Which makes it sound bad, because it’s not just churning, it’s telling a story that I really want to tell, but when you’re at 46,000 words on October 9 (as I write this) and need a minimum of 60,000 words for a novel (and possibly more to actually finish out the story), and have to have it in decent enough shape to submit no later than October 31, well, it starts to feel like a chore. And I know writing is a job, no matter how much fun it can be, and I know every writer goes through times when things are dragging or frustrating and you forget why you do it. Then your characters start talking to you again, and you find yourself smiling or crying or rolling your eyes at them, or someone reads one of your stories and tells you they love it, or that they can’t wait to read your next one, and then you remember—
Oh. Yeah. That’s why I do this.
(*Butt In Chair, Hands On Keyboard. My mantra for life, really.)
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