
So today's work has been completed. Today I edited three projects, bits of them. Two chapters of The Road Home in the early morning, then reading through The Farm At Sam and Jenny's for the bulk of the day. Then three chapters of The War On Emily Dickinson late this afternoon. Then I stopped, and started dinner.
Which was sausages with grilled onions, corn on the cob and veg with dip. Jay was home, so K1 came over with her boyfriend M. Now it's nearly half seven, and they are making their nighttime plans. I think they're going to a party, the girls to spend the night at K1's grandmother's abode.
But those are just details of life, the ending of this year that this time last summer held that girl in our house full time. Now she's just visiting for a few more days, before she heads back to her dwelling, getting ready for college.
And me? I'm getting ready to query The War On Emily Dickinson, the first novel written in this past year of writing dangerously. I think it's a good manuscript, more than good. Pretty darn good, but I'm not objective. Pretty darn biased, but then, really, what do I know?
I know how to write, a task this past year pummeled into my head, month after month, novel after novel. I wrote and wrote, what this year was all about. A fiscal year, August 2009-July 2010, twelve months of buckling down, butt in chair, let's be serious (and have fun too) about this whole writing gig.
A year later, I'd like to say I know what I'm doing, at least for me. I know my voice. I know what POV I prefer (Third, but I've written in first as well.). I know how to write shorter books, longer books. I know that I can write quickly, that I shouldn't take more than two days off when writing.
I know that writing isn't just some hobby, but a way to enjoy my freedom, a manner in which to communicate with my God.
It's far more than I had dreamed three hundred sixty five days ago...
It was dangerous at times, taking three days off consecutively for instance. A big no-no for me. Two is the max I can give, three leaving me sluggish, not right.
It's dangerous at times, wringing from myself what I think is possible, then stretching a little bit more. Three times last year I wrote two novels in a month; August, September, November. It's possible, but man, a lot of butt in chair!
It's dangerous at times, when finding something so close to home in the words, the stories. A few last year were based on very personal situations, tweaked enough to NOT be my life, but in small, or large ways, it was my life. Moments I hope never to relive, except maybe in fiction.
It's dangerous at times, wondering why? Why am I doing this, why so many words? Why can't I do something else, why why why?
Why might have been the most dangerous query all year. Doubting this calling, questioning a power so much greater than me. Curious, so dang curious when all I should have been doing was not giving a hang, only writing.
And on most of the days, that's what I did. I didn't ask why very often, but imagine I'll do it still, on occasion, not as rare as I'd like. So hard to avoid that word, but really, since I know this isn't about me, to ask why is like trying to explain things to a three-year-old. They love to ask why.
(why why why...)
Tomorrow is the first of August of a new fiscal year. Also the first day of a month dedicated to querying, to asking not why but why not? Why not take this manuscript under your wing, into your hand, through the internet lines that easily accept and filter. But that's tomorrow. Today, the last day of this fiscal year, I'm wrapping up days and days of sitting in a chair, using this very keyboard, although I do have a new chair. I have a new chair, but the same computer, the same view out of my window, new plants, but it's the same house, same husband, even our youngest is still around, albeit for a limited time. So much else has changed, too many to list. The novels keep coming, however, that remains. What happens to them is unknown, but something. Something will come of all this, a year of writing to sharpen and polish, a year to learn and grow. A year that taught me to trust, that what is meant to be will certainly arrive. A year to grab hold of this occupation, this craft, this way to express more than I could plot, letting the words fall from my hands, my head, my heart. If nothing else, this is from my heart, one beating with the strength not of my own making.
All of this, every single bit comes from one stronger, more knowledgeable, more than I could ever be. All I'm doing is translating the essence as best as I can.
Translating the essence; what it's really all about. That is what I've learned, sometimes dangerously. But never deadly, always beautiful.
Always the most beautiful thing in the world, once everything else has been left behind. Now I'm ready for the next step. And here I go!
Oh, btw... This month I wrote The Colours of Planes, 101,876 words total. And the complete word count for the year?
1,177,190 words between thirteen novels. Never let anyone tell you something is impossible. If it's meant to be, no one and nothing will prove an obstacle!
