I fear speaking too soon.And yet I’d like to report on my novel-writing project.
Four weeks. 13,500 words. 35 pages. Five chapters. And my dominant emotion? Bafflement. At how easy it feels.
I know enough by now to realize that initial creation is always the fun and easy part of writing. And I know that I am just beginning even that. Finishing will be work. Editing will no doubt suck, as editing always does. And selling it (should I get that far) will be Sisyphean.
But, nevertheless, I feel as if I am watching myself from a distance, thinking: wow, who knew she could do that?
Perhaps the root of my bafflement is that during the six years I spent writing my memoir it never occurred to me —never ever never once—that writing fiction might be easier than writing narrative non-fiction about my dead baby.
(Ahem, a friend responded. Yes, I would think it would be quite a bit easier.)
Who knows how this will all fall out in the end, but right now this is exactly the balm I needed to move forward as a human being and as a writer. And even if this is all it ever is, I’d like to offer up the teeniest and most sincere thank you to the heavens for that.
Wow...thanks so much for reaffirming my faith that we can all find our way to what it is we need in this life. You have found something that brings you joy, through a maze of pain and agonizing. The human capacity to heal is enormous and so affirming. Thank you.
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