Who knew that after the writing, there’d also be the blogging and the tweeting?
Blogging and tweeting. They don’t come quite as naturally as burping and farting. But they are similar in a way, aren’t they? Little bursts of hot air. The good thing about blogs and tweets is you can navigate away from them if you want to. You don’t have to read them. It’s not like being trapped in an over-heated room with an aged auntie’s evil fart, now is it?
Anyway, if you’re still here, this is where I’m at.
I’m not writing.
There, I’ve said it. I’ve blogged it right out. And I refuse to feel guilty. I’m not exactly kicking my heels but I’m enjoying a little distance from my third book. I know it’s coming back to me soon, perhaps with interest. That’s as it should be when it’s had new eyes on it. Agent ones. Soon to have Editor ones. And then my own eyes will be able to see it afresh too. I’ve initiated the work but I would never underestimate the help that agents, editors and other friendly readers can offer. There’s plenty of developing and honing to be done on my manuscript yet.
Meanwhile, I’m spending time out in the garden and enjoying the distance from my work. I’m raking and digging; getting a little flab off the writer’s ever-extending bottom by shovelling leaf mould, nurturing old plants, weeding my perennials.
And I like to think that while I’m pushing new bulbs deep into the soil, ready for spring, I’m also putting a few ideas down for later. The bulbs will stay underground thinking about themselves, gathering nutrients in the dark until they’re ready to start shooting. Hopefully they won’t come up blind, not if I get them in deep enough; they should have big fat blooms. Some of them might even blossom into new stories…
…and some of them will go rotten as old chestnut-stuffing farts, but the less said about them the better.