Last night at 5:30 pm Hawaii time I finally finished a book that was due March 31st. And it was a haaaaaaaaard write. It was a slooooooow write. I can write fast. But this book wouldn’t let me. This book was well, a bed of nails and every chapter was excruciating because I would write a couple words and then struggle, and then write another couple words and struggle some more. I’d pace and sit down and write another few lines and then pace and go outside and then come inside and force myself to sit down and write a few more.
That’s not the Jane way. The Jane way is to write in a feverish flush of imagination and determination and passion and wow. That wasn’t this book. So I wrote the old fashioned way, the way that felt like I was on a great big sturdy Smith Corona typewriter with its clickety-clack of keys and every mistake requires white out or starting over with a fresh sheet of paper.
I remember those writing days.
The book I just finished was my 24th or so for Harlequin and now I wait to hear what my editor says. But until I get my revision letter, I’m just going to go outside and enjoy the sunlight (I’m in Hawaii but haven’t left the house since arriving Easter Sunday) and stare off into space and let my tired brain, and tired wrists and tired body veg.
I keep thinking I don’t know how writing got so difficult, and then I also think, but you did just write two books for Harlequin in three months, which allows six weeks per book, including revisions on the first, and a second set of copy edits on Odd Mom Out, and speaking engagements, and conferences, and being a mom so maybe it’s okay I’m tired. Maybe I don’t have to apologize for my tired little brain.