I confess to being a poor time manager. When I started writing “full-time” eight months ago, I was in the midst of jewelry making and genealogy research … oh yes, and redecorating one of my bathrooms. All those projects are exactly where I left them. But here’s the thing: progress on my novel is now at a pace the Slowskis would love. I blame society.
I’m a hermit by nature. I’m self-taught in all my skills, not because I think I know more than anyone else, but because self-teaching allows me to avoid interaction with scary humans. I’ve long held the belief that, if needed, I could learn brain surgery from a book—and from YouTube?—no problem.
I have a sister who knows half the population of Indiana—and meets with them once a week, for all I know. She goes here, there, and everywhere, doing this, that, and the other. A recitation of her schedule makes me want to hibernate for a year or two. In fact, I might need a nap just writing that. One of my best friends (hey, Mary) started as a pen pal (remember letter writing?) and now, twenty years later, we email. We’ve never met.
So, what inner demon directed me to join a writers’ group? As it turns out, writers are scary humans too. They expect me to talk. Out loud. And they expect me to make sense while talking. I’m ill-suited for the task. I can’t even hold a decent phone conversation … from my own home … sitting in my comfy little chair … while dressed in my fat clothes.
Okay, so it’s good practice for when I’m published and have to do interviews, and book signings, and sit on Oprah’s couch (did I mention, hermits fantasize a lot?) But, what about my novel? Jalal and Meredith are getting impatient … and poor Renee hasn’t had a chance to open her mouth yet.
Time, time, time …