Now that the long holiday weekend has passed, it’s back to work. Putting together a writer’s conference, at this point, with less than two weeks to go, is like a job. There’s lots to do and I’ll be working steadily, for several hours every day, until it’s over.
I’m not complaining. I knew what I was getting myself into, and a conference is something I’ve been pushing for since I joined DWW several years ago. It’s only fitting that I take on the challenge of chairing this event and commit my time accordingly. So, where does that leave my novel-in-progress?
I sat down this morning with my cup of tea and thought about it. The irony of it. My book is almost finished. The conference is almost here. I have two big items on my agenda and all I really want to do it read. I want to bury my head in the sand. I want a day to relax after all the socializing of the holiday. I want to prepare myself mentally for a funeral service tonight, the husband of a friend, who is younger than I am by ten years. He leaves behind not just his grieving widow but two heartbroken teenagers.
When I don’t feel like working on my novel, I usually default to morning pages and ask myself why. What happens most often is, with pen in hand, writing in my notebook, I remember where I was with the manuscript and what is left to do. And then I flip to a fresh notebook page and write by hand. Four pages today. And a blog!
Not bad for someone who feels the way I do today. Sad. Mournful. Anxious. Talked out. Ready for a rest. It doesn’t matter what’s happening in your life. If you’re a writer, that’s what you do. You write. First. Before anything. At least for me. Then I pop onto Twitter and check in with my tweeps at #amwriting. It’s what we do, no matter what.