rusty wheels creaking
slowly steam pours out of ears
I’ve been writing like crazy this week, trying to finish up a handful edits before the second draft of my manuscript is due in early July. I keep distracting myself, though, by still getting excited that Random House wants my book. I know it’s old news now and I should be over the thrill of it, but I can’t help it. Every time I sit down and spread out my manuscript in front of me, with the editorial letter on one side, my notebook just next to it, my laptop open and whirring contentedly… I have to take a moment to think, "Is this real? Like for REAL real? Am I really a writer? Am I really writing, not just because I want to and because I love it, but because someone else likes it, too?" And then I feel this overwhelming flood of gratitude and luckiness and ineptitude and guilt and I have to literally shake my head to make it all go away so that I can write.
And as frustrating and solitary as writing can be, it’s also incredibly fun and even sort of miraculous. I’m constantly surprised by some of the things that appear in the book. Some days it’s like a perfect storm of seemingly inconsequential influences. And yet as I type, it’s like the characters take over and they write the book themselves. Things I would have never thought about or even imagined suddenly appear. This happens despite all of my research, all of my notes, all of the outlining I’ve done – things just happen organically. I guess I shouldn’t be amazed by it, because that’s just how writing is. But I AM still amazed.
I have to go figure out how to disable an electric forcefield now.