I am tempted to write this entire post in caps, because I am definitely shouting inside. Months have passed, exactly how many, I’m not sure, but at least six. And my historical fiction book on an awesome Viking woman named Gudrid is now done. Writers keep so much bottled up, pouring forth their imaginatory prowess into their works, that when the book is done, it’s all I can do to emerge from my darkened room and blink in the sunlight, drive my car without crashing, and come down off this perpetual coffee high.
I finished my last chapter at 12:30 last night, only one hour later than I’d planned. I then proceeded to stay awake, thinking about the book and life in general, for another two hours.
Reading Writer’s Digest recently, I read that Mary Higgins Clark, prolific mystery writer, wrote while she was single with five kids to care for. This is mildly encouraging. I was calculating how many famous writers are not married, or have no children, going all the way back to Thomas Hardy (don’t think he was), Jane Austen, Daphne DuMaurier…well, not sure about that one. Yes, there are some who were married, but even fewer who had kids.
I also enjoyed a quote from a writer (first name is Harlan) who said that you’re not a writer if you can’t make time to write. Harsh, but I think it’s true. Yes, there are dry periods where nothing much is written, and you’re just going about the business of changing diapers, going to work, or surviving. But I do believe that the writing juices are still there, even if they only come out sporadically in emotional diary entries that should immediately be pulled out and burnt.
And so, I rejoice that another book is written. Let’s hope it meets more publishing requirements than my beloved Otherworld. And you know I’m going to have to keep writing.