I read somewhere that one ought to blog (is that a verb? I know it’s a noun now, but is it a verb? I guess it is…)–anyway, one ought to blog about things other than just “I’m writing a book, and I did X number of pages today.” (I did two pages today–which is very disappointing, because I wrote almost 30 pages in longhand last week, which will probably come out to around 35 pages once I type them in–about six pages a day. Two is not going to give me thirty pages by Friday, and I have to head to DFW on Friday, so I doubt I’ll get any writing done then…)
One ought to blog about things in the larger world, the “blog experts” say. (What made them experts anyway? And just who are these experts? I read it somewhere, but names fall out the holes in my brain faster than anything else.) The problem is that I’d really rather not, thank you.
Yes, I have my opinions on public events and politics, and while I realize that I have the right to have opinions and I can even share them with other people if I want to–inevitably, they seem to stir up arguments and ugliness (and as a Southerner, I’m a firm believer in the fact that Ugly is Behavior, not appearance. I grew up being told to “Stop acting ugly to your brother”, so I’m here to tell you that the reason ugly goes clear to the bone is because it’s all in how you act.) and people insulting each other, and I don’t want to listen to it. I won’t listen to it from people I know, so why would I want to listen to it from people I don’t?
I don’t mind blogging about issues regarding the writing and publishing business. I just can’t think of any I feel strongly about right now. Well, except for the tendency of people to run around yelling “The sky is falling!” at the first raindrop, before they know whether it’s a little shower or a thunderstorm with grapefruit-sized hailstones and tornados.
Apparently the book-reading public is shrinking. Or at least they’re buying fewer books. Publishers are caught in the catch-22 of having to print enough books to make a bestseller list, but still allow returns from the booksellers, which puts the authors in a bind too. But there’s not a whole lot I can do about that. All I can do is write the very best book I can and hope an editor will buy it, and then–if they do–hope the public will buy it and love it as much as I do.
However, I’m not loving this book right now. It’s not loving me either. Frankly, I think it’s thumbing its nose at me, daring me to figure out why it’s not getting out onto the paper. It forgets that I’m the boss, and if I don’t write it, it won’t get written. I’m the boss. Maybe if I repeat it enough times, it will feel real. As for the rest of it–you think if I ignore it, it will go away? Me neither. Unfortunately.
Books read since last post:
Urban Shaman by C.E. Murphy (really good)
The Love Affair of an English Lord by Jillian Hunter (pretty good)
The Shop on Blossom Street by Debbie Macomber (pretty good–what I was in the mood for)