This is the fifth place to find me on the internet. Please don't tell me I need a sixth.
I’m finishing up edits and I used to smoke cigarettes and chain smoke when I edited and now all I have is kale and granola and I want to die. So that’s how I’m doing today.
Here is a point I write to sometimes: I want people to read my writing and think, “Holy crap, I didn’t know she had it in her.” Sometimes I have a real screw you, you didn’t believe in me attitude when I’m working. I don’t even know who I’m saying that to anymore. I have plenty of people who believe in me. But I still think I’m saying it to someone and I still think it’s driving me and who am I to argue with something that makes me get my work done.
I took a two-hour walk with the dog yesterday morning and I had an enormous revelation on what the book was about. Oh my god, I thought. Now I know. I was pretty sure I was a genius. Pretty sure! Then I remembered this is the hundredth time this has happened while writing this book. Each time it is a slight variation on the previous revelation, and basically, spoiler, the book is just about life and its struggles.
Writers are boring and predictable.
Somehow I’ve cut 4,000 words from my book, which has worked out to be about seventeen pages. I wanted to cut twenty-five total. (Fifty pages would be a dream, but seems unlikely.) I’m not yet halfway through my revision but I don’t expect to cut a lot from the final third. Still, cutting 2,000 more words seems possible. I’ve started with 450 pages. Usually my books are about 300 pages.
I want this book to be slimmer and move like the wind. I want you to pick up the book and have all the pages fly through your fingertips as if they were enchanted.
Stayed in (mostly) last night so I could get up early and work on the book before I go to yoga and then a bunch of parades today. Most of what I am thinking about this morning while I’m editing, what I’m infusing it with I guess you could say, is the idea that I write because I want to see things exist. They aren’t already there, and they should be — at least for my own benefit or enjoyment.
Once I ran into my friend Andrew on the subway platform in my neighborhood. He was wearing headphones, and we waved hello. I’ve loved Andrew’s music for twenty years, so of course I asked what he was listening to, and he said his own songs. He told me that he wrote music so he would have something to listen to. I don’t think that means he hates other music. (He is a pretty loving guy.) It’s just that he knows what he loves best.
There are plenty of things for me to read out there but it’s true, the work I like to spend the most time with is my own. I’ll read this book, these sentences, consider these characters, a hundred times before I’m done. I’ll fall in and out of love with them during that time, but hopefully I’ll land on love in the end.