February 7, 2012
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Call the Midwife.
Nobody told me that writing a book is so much like giving birth. This is crazy.
I’ve had a book swimming around in my head for years. Correction: Make that books. It’s a wonder I can think at all with all this stuff jumping around in here.
Wow, the confusion!
There’s a thought–better write that down!
Where?
Wait, can’t blog it–it should go in the book!
Which one?
How should I know? You’re the writer!
I am? Oh, wait. Yes…yes, I am. I am?
You’ve known it your whole life. Pull yourself together, woman.
Am I the only idiot who has involved conversations with herself?
Probably.
Shut up.
You asked.
Yes, I suppose I did. Now what? Where do I go from here?
Enough with the italics. Too much introspection. Good grief. This has to be hormone-driven.
What is happening to me? Is this the part where I look back and see with startling clarity the Braxton-Hicks contractions of those first scribbled stories, the years of teaching creative writing, the lifestory coaching, the endless journaling, the sporadic ebb and flow of blogging? Where I suddenly realize that maybe this is really it, that maybe I really am finally in labor–that I am about to have a book? Or maybe it’s just another one of those dreams about giving birth to an alien. I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know this is scary mess.
Forget boiling water. I need coffee.
Comments (1)
The longest book begins with the first paragraph. Nothing enjoys a finish unless it first goes through the labor of its beginning.