Writing is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. When I don’t have a writing project, I’m a mess. This past week is proof.
You see, I’d finished my manuscript, and gone through the self-editing and beta readers comments and sent the story off to my agent. YAY! Happy dance! Now, I know those precious pages will come back to me with the flaws highlighted, and I will then work very hard to correct and refine the rough spots, and to rewrite whatever may be necessary.
But in the mean time…
I’ve had a week without a book to write. I know better than to dive in to the next one. This one’s coming back soon and I don’t want to be into the next one and still dealing with this one. So.
Day one was kind of cool. For the first few hours.
I checked email. Goofed off on Facebook. Played some spider solitaire(which I kick ass at). I played my guitar until the dogs decided I was too loud and walked out. Eventually, I decided to clean. I should’ve taken my temperature at that point, or headed directly for the emergency room. Wanting to clean is a sure sign something is wrong….
I counseled myself that it was okay. It’s just Spring Cleaning.
The next day, I tried to be cool. I tried to play it like normal, fix the java and chocolate and peppermint syrup concoction that I call breakfast. (Yes, technically it’s a liquid candy bar, I know. Shut up. It’s muse juice. Those calories don’t count.) I tried to deny the craving to write, the shakiness of knowing I had no words to mess with. I told myself maybe decaf would be a good idea.
A week later, my house is in utter disarray. Nearly every wall is now sporting a fresh coat of paint. I’ve learned that Judas Priest is EXCELLENT painting music, and that all my DISTURBD songs are so bass-heavy that when on a ladder in the corner, the acoustics of the room are such that the bass line buzzes.
The living/dining room (of which the “dining” portion is my office) has everything pushed into the center to make way for me and paint rollers. It was a slightly greenish khaki AKA: “It’ll sell if it’s neutral.” Four years later, I’m, finally painting over it. Red. DOZEN ROSES red. Really, really red. And adding a faux finish. New curtain rods. New curtains. (Fingers crossed that new floor and furniture will be next.)
Writing motivates me. It keeps me focused on a steady, even-paced and socially acceptable project behind a desk. In other words, writing keeps me from getting bored. Getting bored = me getting into trouble. For now, as when I’m writing, I’m confined to my house. The bonus in painting is my arms are getting toned. (Just amuse me and go with me on that one, okay?) But imagine if I got the house painted and there was no manuscript to work on….
Without writing, I’m all over the place. Apparently, I don’t do well without a clear purpose. Writing a novel is a big a job. If I can paint the kitchen, entry, living/dining room, stairwell and upper hall, master bedroom and master bath in a two-week period, what would I do without a book to write? I don’t want to find out.
Perhaps writing a novel is the thing keeping me from taking over the world mad-scientist style.
Or, perhaps the paint fumes are starting to affect me…. :-P
