I finished the second draft of my memoir (👏), which even has a new title: The Warmth of a Winter Sun. The book is currently 75,058 words. Not bad.
But now the book has officially entered the “cooling off” phase. You know, that set amount of time (in this case, the coming fall semester) where I DON’T TOUCH IT. (Book: That’s right, Lynn. In the immortal words of Michael Jackson, Just Leave Me Alone.)
The book and I need this break. I’m sick of it, and it’s sick of me. Plus, I can’t see it objectively anymore. Here’s hoping time gives me more distance and that I can complete a third draft over Winter Break … and that a fourth draft will be minimal some time after.
In the meantime, I figure I should use this fall semester to get back into fiction. Except I haven’t been writing fiction for about a year and a half. That’s a LONG time. When I sat down yesterday to write, I panicked. (Whereby I spontaneously started shouting “42!” And when that didn’t work, “ROSEBUD!” and then “ADRIAN!” Sorry, neighbors.)
I don’t know. Is this just another way of procrastinating? Like, freak out and get out of writing? Hm. My subconscious might be craftier than I thought. Even so, I’m not sure how to proceed. Should I just try out a bunch of free writes? Formal exercises? A third lovely option?
I’ll try something today and report back.
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