As anyone who reads this blog knows, I do whine and carry on and get so traumatized by my work that I am about to jump out of my skin. I worry constantly. Will Breathe do well when it comes out? Will it get reviewed? Will it get paperback, foreign sales and oh please Goddess of writing, a film deal? Will I ever be published again or will I end up working as a cashier at Wal-Mart, adding up other peoples' cans of tuna and towels and lurid paperback books sold by the magazine counter? My mind starts to become a neighborhood I don't really want to hang around in too long.
This morning though the characters of my new novel began to speak to me. The novel began to breathe and stretch its legs and I was lost in the story world, inside the heads of these people. (It's too early to talk about the novel--I am, among many things, superstitious.)
I think I am in love with this novel. (and I wish I had a title.)
That feeling, that commitment, is something writers have to work on, like any relationship, I suppose. You can't take it for granted, you can't forget the sweet talk and passionate kisses or the difficult talks. And you absolutely cannot be afraid.