So, in other obsessive writer news, the third book in the Ravenhawk world is done, the second book is with the publisher just so it’s in their hands (I work in tech, my paranoia is justified) and book one is still scheduled for sometime this year.
The muse is finally dialing back the GOTTA WRITE urges which are fun, but not so much when you have other nonsense to contend with, like an oil furnace dying as 2018 gasped its last (after two repair calls had not fixed the issue) and a project at work that is the reason why my hair is so short (harder to pull it out in frustration) and an economy that makes it really difficult for part of my family to be able to get on their feet. My son and daughter love each other, but they do best when they occupy separate buildings.
And honestly, really not sure how to balance hoping that Ravenhawk is the book that might just let me consider flipping the bird to the current job, (or at least give me the feeling that I am not trapped there due to finances. Wouldn’t that just be a novel effing concept?) and trying to be realistic about the whole thing. Granted, realistically, there is always the chance (risk?) that this is the story that makes me a quote-quote real author. You know, the kind that being an author is their main job? (There are always the downsides to success in an entertainment/media arena. That’s why I add ‘risk’ to the thing.)
“Being realistic” for me has always been self-denigrating. I am not that good. No one will like it. People only want vapid stories like Twilight or its perverted fanfic success, Fifty Shades. It has been believing that I will be the next breakout success and being smacked with the ‘reality’ that no one (okay, okay, a real small number of people) knows or cares I exist, thus reality is that, etched in granite. Like a tombstone. “Here lies Lexy’s hopes and dreams. They never had the chance to live.”
So, since ‘middle ground’ is not a place I frequently occupy, I simply ignore the future and focused on the next story, or editing the previous or most recent. But this time, the muse isn’t having it. She is exhausted after kicking out three full novels and about 4 accompanying short stories since April 2018, along with a full time job with a hellish commute, and dealing with all the joys of home ownership while staring down the half-century birthday trudging up the road.
What does this mean? Oh, that probably within the next two to three weeks, she will wake up with “I HAZ IDEAZ!” I should probably figure out a napping muse hobby until then.