Writing, writing, writing .
Sometimes-a lot of the time-I feel like I will never finish this project. The honest truth is that writing about my life is hard. I don’t want to dredge up the shit. But a’dredging we shall go, because I know intuitively that the only way through the stuck and sticky spaces is to write what I did down.
It’s not light material. But the story is good. Even I like reading the finished parts. I think the structure of a book is just hard. Things have to make sense in a different way than writing essays and blog posts.
I need to remember that I have, in fact, written a novel. I’m also considering writing sequels for it, because it was not as hard as writing a memoir. Perhaps having two going simultaneously is a good choice.
For now I’m getting in my warm bed and hiding from the blustery cold. While I sleep I’m going to let the ideas go to rest inside my head.