I’m writing lots of words this summer. Not in gigantic chunks (that’s what next week’s retreat is for), but I’m consistently and happily working on revision and finishing a(nother) draft. I write in my bed. I write in my “writing room” where I have a kitchen chair at a tiny desk and a yummy recliner with a fuzzy blanket. I write in the public library, which tests my distractability limits. I write in the backyard. I write on the front porch. I write on my bedroom floor when the morning sun comes in the window. I write in the kitchen.
And when I’m not writing, I read. I listen to audio books. I study craft books. I read fiction. Nonfiction. Romantic comedy. What-the-dramatic popular stories. Talks and podcasts. I’m learning.
I’m working.
And it’s working.
And sometimes it’s terrifying. Sometimes I look at my words and I wonder, “Who will like this? Will anyone who doesn’t already love me find this good?”
And sometimes I read words I wrote and I grin. Or I sigh. Or I laugh.
It’s good to be a writer.