A heat wave has hit California, and won’t truly abate until the weekend. Right now Silicon Valley is enjoying a little lull, if you count the upper 90s as relief, but compared to the 106 F at our house on Sunday, I’ll take it. Yesterday I meant to write, but a walk required my focus, and by the time I sat at my computer, the heat had sapped all my mental energy. Today I compromised, pounding out two-thirds of a chapter, then walking for a mile and a half. Turns out those 1700 words will be a chapter all their own, and I’ll see what happens tomorrow.
Despite the hot temps, I’m firmly engaged with my return to writing, breaks be darned as well as the blistering heat. The next few months are relatively open for the flow of prose, and my desire to complete this novel will push me through whatever hurdles loiter on the horizon. Other stories I ache to tell are further fuel, but alongside this journey is another that while running parallel tells a different tale; I am not the writer I used to be.
Of course, some of that is good news; thinking back to ten years ago, when I made the decision to pursue writing, I was such a novice, oh my goodness. Not only was I mediocre, my grasp of the business side of writing was nil. That business side has altered radically in the past decade, as have my goals, as well as the quality of my output. The quantity has changed too; I used to knock off a first draft in thirty days, thanks to National Novel Writing Month. But when I consider those drafts, their purpose was to start the aching process of learning to produce fiction, or most of them. I published a few, but the bulk are filed away on my PC and in flash drives. Just thinking about them reminds me how I have grown as an author.
But as I’ve previously noted here, time has become a precious commodity in regards to the words. However, what I do write now needs less work than in years past, so that’s a win. Except that this book seems endless, sigh. But I will finish it, because I’m nearly there and nothing pressing is scheduled for the immediate future, go me! Although one can never predict the future, meh. But in not being able to predict the future, I can boldly go forward assuming The Hawk will find its end, yay! But you know what happens when you assume something.
(Ass out of you and me….)
Okay, okay, enough internal bickering. I’m starting to sound like my grandson, who had a philosophical argument with his mum this morning, or what a two and a half year old can muster: Trash? Yes, trash. Trash?? Yes sweetheart, trash. Trash??? OMG yes, put that in the trash! Trash???? Mum then points to the garbage while The Burrito hollers about trash and hammers and so it goes. I’ve put a lot of writing into the metaphorical rubbish bin, but what remains tells me that yes, I am a writer, I will always be a writer, but right now writing has to step down, or I need to step away, maybe find a hammer, then pound at imaginary nails alongside wee ones who need me more than I need fiction. Dude, seriously? Um, yeah. Trash, Grandma (or Bama, as my nieto calls me as he has a hard time with the letter G). Finish this book Bama, then find something else to do.
But it’s not easy prying my mind from this tasking; my hands are much easier to fill, either with grandkids or fabrics or laundry baskets. Yet my heart beats in spinning yarns; I listen to old playlists connected to plots and I want to write that novel. I’ll read something and mentally fashion my own take on it. A picture appears on my screensaver and I want to tell that tale. What keeps me from losing my cool, especially in this sweltering heat? It’s an inner voice, asking me to trust. Trust that time will provide for The End’s. Trust that chapters will be the perfect length. Trust that if and when other books are to be written they most certainly shall be started, and finished! Trust that in letting go of my assumptions, no one will feel awkward or let down, least of all myself. Perhaps I should be more worked-up about all this, but in becoming a little anxious, I’m enabled to once again search for peace within my soul; for me that means taking deep breaths, giving thanks for being able to write even this post, realizing how far I’ve been graced to go in the last ten years on this authorial roadway. I’ve been writing for over ten years, been indie publishing for nearly six, and truthfully there is no end in sight, other than The End for the WIP. Yeah, one of these days (please God let it be sometime this year) The Hawk will find its way into the Done pile.
In the meantime, I’ll keep cool both inside my house as well as within my heart. Not in my own strength certainly, but due to Love. May that calm be with you today.