Excuses, excuses
So I’m taking some flack about not writing in my blog for awhile. You see how hopelessly outdated I am? I still say ‘writing in my blog’ as if it’s a journal, instead of ‘writing my blog’ as if it’s a, well, blog. This is probably why I don’t embrace the blog culture as I should; it’s too immediate, and it’s always time for another one, and all in all it’s like shaving your legs, which there really is nothing good about; by the time you finish one leg and start on the other it’s practically time to do the first one again. Also, with a blog, you have much fewer excuses. You are a writer so you can’t say you don’t have time to write. What about ‘the dog ate my blog?’ Needs work…
When I was growing up we had diaries. First of all, you had time to write in them, sprawled on your pink quilt, surrounded by stuffed animals. If you didn’t get to write for awhile the only ones who knew about it were you and you. Or possibly the diary, but only if you had named it like Anne Frank did, and if you were prone to personification, as I was; I used to rotate my stuffed animals from the shelves to my bed so they wouldn’t ever feel left out. Now I do that with the kids. Each day I decide which one is the good one. Son got all his law school applications out? He’s in the lead. Daughter received a letter of praise from her new boss? Uh oh, now she’s in front. Every day I tell one of them that they’re ‘the good one.’ They actually laugh. It’s possible they don’t believe me. Or maybe they do. These days it doesn’t take much for them to laugh at me for any number of reasons.
Still, I do have a good excuse for slacking off and it’s not the usual although the usual did occur: holidays were a crazy time, one son sick and taking the LSAT’s and a daughter switching jobs, plus a bit of traveling and several speaking engagements (these don’t constitute a good excuse because they really take up more anticipatory emotional time than physical). The main excuse is the new book. Not the one that’s coming out in April, that’s well out of my hands by now. I’ve come to think of publishing like fashion; you are always working at least two seasons ahead and whatever’s selling now is definitely not what someone will want later. Also, both groups have their share of wackadoodles. And I don’t mean the writers!
The real reason I haven’t blogged is I’ve been concentrating on the new book because it’s been about one third done since last May and I decided it probably needs to be a little more than 100 pages if it’s going to sell for the $32.95 that I think is fair for my pearls of genius. Probably if I’m going to charge that much I should also lose some of the cliché’s like pearls of genius. Just a thought between me and me. Besides, if anyone balks at the price I’ll happily accept a trade paperback deal for 14.95 but don’t tell.
So. I will try to be more vigilant about blogging, but my excuses are in place: I am hard at work, actually close to two thirds done, and without jinxing anything, it’s going great and I’m in the zone. And for this reason, my writing day lasts anywhere between three and five hours and after that I am too burned out to do any more, plus I am out of pearls. Wait, scratch that. I am out of gems. Still a jewel metaphor but I like it. Anyway, my apologies in advance to anyone in addition to Carron in Scottsdale who may have been reading this thing and expecting more. I will try to do better. But in case I don’t, it’s because the sun was in my eyes.