For me, beginning a new manuscript is a big, big deal. While I do have several folders with new book ideas in them, I’m not one of those people (ahem, Suzanne) who can have ten partially started manuscripts on their desktops. Once I start, I become a bit obsessive; like a dog with a bone (or me with a sleeve of Thin Mints), I want to finish it all—and quickly.
I need to start Book Two of the Flux duo. I owe a super-secret draft to my editor at the end of July, which he will then help shape into the Real Draft that’s due September 1. I have a pretty detailed three-page outline, so there are really no big surprises (ha! Doesn’t every writer think that until fifty pages in, when book takes on a life of its own?) but I can’t seem to open a doc and name it. Every day something looms; today it’s the overnight trip I have with our third-grade Brownie troop. Seriously, how can I start a book with an overnight Brownie trip coming up in just hours? Starting a book is monumental! It deserves a clean house! With laundry folded and put away! And the dishwasher empty! And new chlorine tabs in the toilet tanks! And a stretch of a least 5 hours of writing time beforeme! And…and…and... This is where my monkey mind takes my rational mind hostage.
I’m rambling. I’m rambling so I won’t have to open that document and name it.
Monday morning, my friends. All housely distractions will be taken care of tomorrow, so I will have no excuse. Permission to flog me (or take me to a musical) if my new manuscript’s date-of-creation stamp in Word does not read 3-9-09.
Have a great weekend, peeps. I’ll toast you all with marshmallows roasted on unwound coat hangers!
4 hours ago