My closet life for those of you who aren't aware, is the the metaphor I've given to that part of my life that involves my writing. In other words, the made up part of my life. The one where the people don't really exist. Lately, I haven't been spending too much time there.
Part of the reason is because, to tell you the truth, I'm simply worn out. Writing my last book took a huge toll on me. A few days ago over at Girlfriends Book Club we discussed how long it takes to write a book. The consensus was somewhere between a few months but less than nine years (heh).
I've written a book in six months and it's a struggle. Not because I can't finish a book in that time. But because I really need time between my drafts to let my words marinate. Someone asked me once what I thought of finally reading my book in print. The answer was, "I don't read my books in print." Once I send off the last draft I never read the book again. I simply can't. If I can't edit it, then I can't read it. Because I'll always find something that can be improved. I think a lot of writers feel the same way.
So... last night (after I got back from Bunco!) I sat down to open up my latest manuscript (tentatively titled Girlfriends are Forever) in which I've been struggling heartily because I haven't found the right opening. Well, I'm happy to say that I think I found the right beginning. Which means, it's back to my closet life and I think I'm happy about that.
The Magic Wand of Generosity
1 hour ago