The summer is ripping by way too quickly. The G-force has stretched my face backward so violently that my lips have been pulled over my forehead.
I knew the minute that classes were over in May that I'd barely be able to get my toes wet in the pool of summer, and then the pool would be drained. I have 53 more days off before I'm back in the classroom. This sounds like a lot, especially to those with year-round jobs, but it isn't long when you're trying desperately to get a book written.
It's progressing slowly, and I'm finding out just exactly how much there is to learn when I'm foolish enough to attempt such a thing. And I'm not even talking about the writing itself, which is its own spinning mirror ball. I'm talking about the way my brain and heart have both been opened up and tinkered with. The book is personal, and while poking into many dark corners of my life, and even corners that aren't so dark, I've met with surprises both good and bad. The thing is, when you look inside your life, and focus attention there, you find things.
And then there's the new cul-de-sac where my thoughts have taken up residence. Almost every minute I'm away from the writing, I'm thinking about the writing. There are no more leisure moments under the blasting hot water from the shower where I can think about things like, oh my God, going to the mall. No. Here comes the book again. It shakes me from my mall-trance and says "But what about this part?" or "What will you change her name to?"
"Take a little time off," I tell it. "Ponder with me the sale going on at Shoe Carnival." But it is not distracted. It wants to point out the unimpressive word count I managed yesterday.
So here we go, hand in hand, back to the embryonic manuscript. I pray that by the time the first leaf turns in the fall, it will be viable outside the womb of my Word program. I'm so looking forward to the first time I can feel it kick.