A Story About A Man Named Harold Crick

I finally started working on my book again this week.  You know, the one I started well over a year ago, but never finished due to being a full-time online student (you can only stare at the computer so long before your eyes start to fall out).  Plus practically all of my classes were literature-related, which meant my entire life consisted of reading Norton Anthologies and writing dozens of 22-page comprehensive papers.  I promised myself I was going to get back into it in September, but then graduation rolled around and I just couldn't seem to buckle down.  And now it's October (can you believe I procrastinated for two whole months?).

The kick-off for me was reading a blog post by this girl who recently got a literary agent based on three chapters of a book she hasn't written yet.  I thought my head might explode.  Nothing gets me working faster than the realization that someone else is out there achieving my goals before I do (possibly this says something very bad about my character - I'm not sure.  I choose to believe it's just a competitive thing and leave it at that).

So I've spent every free minute of the last few days reading, tweaking, and editing the 90-ish pages I'd already written, mulling over my old plot-line and character list, and writing up blips from my mental notebook (where I keep brief drafts of things I've observed over the past year that I want to add into the book).  Fortunately, I didn't come out hating it (this is probably why I procrastinated - I was a bit afraid I'd have to start from scratch).  There's just one part that doesn't sit well with me, so I've got to re-write it today.  (That being said, I must add that my reaction to this manuscript depends entirely on my mood when I read it - I can run hot or cold.  Sometimes I think I'm kidding myself pretending I can write, but I love writing so much I just can't seem to stop).  Which basically means that next week I can finally start where I left off.

This is a bit of a relief because I'm supposed to be starting the MFA program at Southern New Hampshire University in January.  Based on what I've been told, the students are expected to write a manuscript and turn in something like 30 pages a month - no biggie if you know where you're going with the plot-line, but without any ideas whatsoever this could be a problem.  Of course, all this depends on the Award Letter I should be receiving in the mail any day now.  Here's to hoping I can get some kind of financial aid.

I probably shouldn't have written this post because I don't want to raise any expectations.  The idea that other people assume I will write a book and get published someday makes me edgy, if for no other reason than that it's quite possible whatever I write will remain in a zipped document for the remainder of its existence.  I'd much rather you think I lack ambition and talent and then VAVOOM!  I could surprise you!  But you can't hide your dreams, right?  So, if nothing ever comes of this, I'll teach creative writing, open my coffeehouse, and keep writing anyway.  That's Plan B.  Plan C involves an atlas, a sleeping bag, and a VW-Bus festooned in peace signs and somewhat offensive bumper stickers.  But you don't need to know about that one.

My coffeemaker just exploded so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go lick what's left of my coffee off the countertop.