If I want to call myself a writer, I feel like I should always have something worth saying in this space. Some bit of humor, a tiny piece of wisdom, a story about a monkey, something.
I got nothing.
November is shaping up to be exactly what I expected it to be, which is a pleasant surprise. Things so rarely turn out exactly as we expect them to. I spend my mornings editing Elements #2, killing various darlings and trying to make sense where none currently exists. I take a long break for the day job and an hour or two of Netflix (current rewatch: Battlestar Galactica, which, for the record, doesn’t make more sense when you already know who the Cylons are). Evenings are for NaNoWriMo, when I crank out a couple thousand words in a story I hope will (with much editing) become my next series. Then, I sleep.
It’s boring, and it’s absolutely perfect. I have books to write. I have worlds and people and dastardly plots that want to see the light of day. I have a day job I hope to quit, someday. There were too many years when I believed I couldn’t write, that I didn’t have the discipline and that I plain wasn’t good enough. I got over it, and while I don’t regret those wasted years, I have a lot of time to make up for. Right now, this is what I need to be doing, even if it does mean I’ll spend most of November staring at my computer, slowly forgetting how to interact with the outside world. It’s worth it.
So, in lieu of actual news or updates or, you know, wit, have a gif of a cat stealing pancakes.