You can find me in the woods

I’ve promised husband of mine the finished alpha manuscript by next year as a Christmas present.

No pressure or anything.

The beta draft is marked up to hell (as it should be), and I just finished rewriting the beginning in its entirety over the past week, and I have carved out a wonderful little writing workspace in our new home.

Window view = creative feng shui.

But given the impending deadline for such an upheaval of words, I’ve got much more at stake than NaNoWriMo, and that means I have to be a stranger for awhile.

If you happen to cross paths with me at the designated hour of the day I allow myself to leave the house (going for a run, getting mail, doing laundry, etc.) and I have that glazed, zombified, lost-in-my-head-depths-of-the-plothole-with-a-matchstick-and-a-Thermos-of-espresso kind of look, please forgive me as we exchange greetings and I frankly scamper away like a crazy person.

The truth is, we writers are kind of crazy people. No, no, I don’t think you understand. If I do not make Embracing Homebody time sacred then nothing would get done.

E.B. White said it best:

A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word to paper.”

So excuse me for being entirely elsewhere — I’ve got 88,000~ words and two and half months, you guys, and it’s not over until it comes to life while I’m alive. I am pushing the limits of my creative energies. I am feeling everything all at once.

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