He asked her if she was getting any writing done.
Now he has a knife sticking out of his chest.
Don’t let this be you.
I have been queried of late as to whether I am “working on my book.” To wit, one week after I told my sister that I was setting aside the thriller to focus on a memoir:
Cookie: So, have you made any progress on your book?
Cookie: So how many chapters have you written?
Me: It does not work that way. You do not just start writing chapters. I am working on an outline. That is progress.
Cookie: Ok. Sorry. No pressure. I was just interested. When do you start writing chapters?
Then, while I am minding my own business, reading Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, my hubby pipes up:
Coe: So, are you doing any writing?
Coe: I was just wondering. Because you went to those writing conferences. But you seem to spend a lot of time reading.
Me: Remember how you complain about how much time I spend on the computer? That would be me, writing.
Coe: Oh. I thought you were just ordering stuff on Amazon.
Seriously. How am I supposed to get any writing done with these kinds of attitudes. So listen up. The Bloggess spent 11 years writing her best-selling book, which was published in 2012, debuted as a NYT bestseller and has been optioned for a t.v. series. Her second book comes out in September.
Obviously, these things cannot be rushed. Yes, I am working on my book. Do not be bugging me about it for at least ten more years. If you are dead before it gets published, sorry for your luck. Somebody had to die, glad it wasn’t me. Otherwise, this book will never get finished. That’s like a lose/lose.
On a win/win note, I am going to continue reading a book while enjoying the Cowen Cellars Sauvignon Blanc on this misty, rainy day.