Writing a book is a horrible, exhuasting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness.
George Orwell, Why I Write
I love when writers are honest about our craft. i’m in the middle of drafting an online short read, and I’ll tell you, writing those ten thousand words are as hard as writing fifty thousand.
Of course, having spring fever doesn’t help. The other day it was 86 degrees. I came up with the bright idea that I’d write while sitting on the porch swing. I spent the bulk of my time watching the bird feeders, hoping to spot a Baltimore Oriole. (I didn’t. Nor did I get many words down.)
Thank goodness for New England weather, and the certainty I’ll have at least a few more cold spring days to buckle down and finish. Let’s hope it gets easier. But, if Orwell has anything to say about things, it probably won’t.
In the meantime, keep writing and reading!
PS: Lt. Tattoo is home for the summer as well. He’s terrific company, making for another distraction. It’s so hard to lock yourself away when your son wants to chat about life. Thankfully, he starts his full-time summer job soon so those chats will be fewer and further between.