I pulled out a partial manuscript that I began and filed away a few years ago. I read it over the weekend. It wasn’t awful.
Today after I came home from school and ate everything in the kitchen, then watched the Marco Polo messages from today, checked all the Instagram, texted two friends, and read the family group chat thread, I finally opened the document and began filling in the large, frequent, and deep holes.
I’ve put almost a thousand new words in the document. it doesn’t really have a voice yet, which is weird, because that’s usually where I start, but it has a plot, and hey–those are good for books, right? I will recover the mojo. I will remember how to write romantic comedy. I will rekindle the sizzle.
But I’m going to do it over here in my room and nobody really needs to know it’s happening. Because this is DEEPLY not for public consumption yet.
Yet.