It's been a week of catching up and relaxing and letting the fingerprint grow back on my weary digits and now, of course, I'm getting a bit bored. And antsy. And anxious. This can mean one of three things:
A. I need to finalize the design and prep for my next window.
B. I need to get back to writing THE BOOK.
C. I could clean the house. Not.
Naturally, it is B that wins the turkey. Many know, and are probably sick and tired of knowing, that I am writing a book. It's about two brothers. One has autism. (It is not "Rainman.") They are flummuxed about the women in their lives. It's funny. Their aunt runs a hardware store.
I'm planning on putting excerpts on a secure site for patient, loving people (with time on their hands) to read and comment on. My friend, Rebecca, of "Nice to Come Home To" fame (her fab book coming out this year) did this to writerly advantage. As soon as I find out how she did this, I will tell you, invite you, and possibly beg you to come sign up for a read.
It must be said that I have had the generous gift of reviewers here and there already. Grateful thanks go out to my other friend, Chris, and her husband, Dick, for all the fine Asperger's behavioral and key personal habits edits that they have suggested over many months. "The Monday Group" and "The Wednesday Group" also deserve respectful shout outs. And Coach Don.
It's funny, most of us grow up with this vision of all writers beavering away in some garret all alone (aka the Emily Dickinson model). And, okay, there is a lot of solitary writing that has to happen. Yet, despite all rumors to the contrary, writing is a community effort. At least for me.
I'm thinking that Dickinson must have been agoraphobic. Or, perhaps, she had a multiple personality disorder, and her witty personas kept each other company.