Besides being a devoted mom, it’s one of the things of which I’m most proud. My novel’s not very good, but it’s mine and after almost a lifetime of abandoning novels three or four chapters in, it’s complete. That’s a huge accomplishment!
I’m working on my second one. Although it’s still a very rough first draft, it’s already better than my ruthlessly edited first book. (In my case, practice may not make perfect, but it does make better.) I enjoy the process and I adore my protagonist. Not only is she a character, she has character.
Aiming for 60,000 words or thereabouts, I’m 50,000 words in. All the strands of the complex plot are coming together for one kick ass conclusion. I know exactly where I want the story to go and my characters are co-operating.
And I’m stuck.
I can’t write.
For a while I beat myself up about it. It hung over my head like an overdue assignment. I couldn’t relax. Whenever I had a spare moment, I chastised myself for not using it to write.
I strive to be kind to others. I’m finally learning to be kind to myself, too. I don’t have the energy to devote to a novel just now. I’m too busy focussing on my other success–mom extraordinaire–and that’s okay.
Unlike my boy, Sister Rita (my protagonist is a spirited nun) will still be there, right where I left her, when I have the time and vigor to devote to her–probably not until my sailor gets home safely.
It’s okay to let some things slide–really it is.