The weekend was very full, of activities and kids, the day job and sugar, followed by my usual Monday, early morning, wake-up call.
I’ve been a tad more narcoleptic than usual today.*
However, the brilliant Jeff Cohen over at Dead Guy answered my fearful, unasked question about why I’ve been feeling like I’m writing in boxing gloves, while two rooms away, my brain floats around in a jar of something thick and treacle-y. It’s called Act Two, and somehow, each of my three projects have reached that exact point at the same time . . . Whee for me.
So the answer isn’t (necessarily) sleep deprivation or lack of talent and skill. However, some time management is probably in order.
Two projects are important, with deadlines (if self-imposed) and one isn’t, so I’m placing that one on standby. This has the immediate effect of bringing the paused story to the forefront of my mind and elevating it to potential star-crossed soulmate.
What if that’s the project I’m supposed to write? What if that one is the novel of my heart? What if I can’t find my way back?
Novel of my heart, meet the novels of my work ethic.
I’ve come to understand that if I’m serious about this writing business as more than something to blog about, I’ve got to actually produce a finished novel. I’m too old to waste time floating about in gauzy caftans moaning about the sensitivities of the artist and flitting from project to project, looking for Mr. Goodnovel.
I’ve got to sit down in that chair and get my MC’s’ love interest shot while my other MC is out meeting his ex-girlfriend . And then I’ve got to switch over and get those MC’s to con the FBI into locating an Interpol agent who’s using a pregnant social worker to find the estranged wife of . . .oh, never mind.
But I’d better reverse that, since I’m closer to deadline on the Interpol chapter than I am on the shooting.
Pay no attention to that manuscript over there singing “Maria” from West Side Story.
*If your jaw just dropped, you’ve mistaken narcolepsy for necrophilia. You probably shouldn’t do that.