The winter and the thin economy put me to mind of slow food. My dinners these days are based on tough cuts of meat braised for hours with cheap root vegetables: carrots, potatoes, parsnips, beets. Simple, inexpensive deliciousness in no hurry to go anywhere.
That's my writing these days: unhurried and deliberate. What a relief. Last year pulsed, a frantic race: a rush to finish BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT, a rush to market, a rush to get noticed. Even Na NoWriMo (which was a crazed blast). But this manic focus on getting attention sort of ruined the writing. The prcoess of writing.
Now, I can write. There is NO market. Sure, I'll keep seeking representation (though at a leisurely pace), but there's no hurry: the agents have no idea where to submit mansucripts. Editors laid off, imprints merged and even dissolved, houses putting the kabosh on new acqisitions... eh. Who needs that migraine?
So, I write. Every day. Novels and essays and poems and shorts. Especially the latter, which have a chance in hell of seeing the light of day.
The joy is back. I remember WHY I write. This all makes me very happy. Really.
Slow writing... Peace, Linda
PS. One reason why the whole process is so damn slow. Via Neil Gaiman via twitter via MacMillan ==> THE TYPEWRITER
PPS. Cool. This is my 100th post.