The previous post's title made a lot more sense when I was planning to write as much about my stalled writing process as about the book being reviewed.
I wrote that hours ago--yesterday, since it's well past midnight. But instead of finishing, I did mommy things. OK, I can't stop being a mother to be a writer. But I watched TV, nothing that I HAD to see. I swept the kitchen floor. I fooled around on Facebook. I had sex. I thought very clever thoughts about the difference between analysis and behavioural psych. I picked up Unleashed and started reading again. (And I could bitch more about how the story's crafted, but it's still a good story. Check it out if you're into YA.)
Now it's ass o'clock in the morning, I can't sleep, and I'm ready to chuck clever for down and dirty. I've done the exercises in The Artist's Way. I've soul searched. I've done...crap. I know all the setbacks and harsh bits of life that got my internal soundtrack stuck on "you're not good enough, you'll never make it." While it's lovely that my best English teacher, a bestselling author, and my own creative heart tell me that I have talent, it's obviously not their voices that I'm heading.
Whatever. This is the point where I stop thinking about, stop trying to work it out, and just start doing.
Seven thousand words a week. I make my commitment here and now, with no bribes to get me to do it, and no punishments if I fail. I'll post a note about hitting or missing target from time to time because this IS supposed to be about my journey for good or ill. But that's it.
Or that's mostly it. If I'm still at it a year from now with nothing to show but not-quite-ready manuscripts, I'm packing it in.