I wrote a novel.
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.
I’m a quiet, bookish type. Although I admire extroverts (they seem to have such fun!), I have given up hope of ever joining their exuberant ranks. My comfort zone is a quiet corner with a thick novel.
Are book worms born or are they created? Researchers haven’t solved the nature vs nurture puzzle. In my case, I can attest that my mother had a hand in moulding me into a book lover. I don’t remember her ever reading to me, but she promoted me reading to myself from an early age.
She signed me up for my first library card the day I started kindergarten and took me there regularly to exchange books. As I got older she provided a constant stream of novels and it wasn’t unusual for me to come home from school to find a new book or two waiting in my room for me.
Back then my taste ran to historical fiction and childhood classics. Favourites were the Laura Ingalls Wilder series, LM Montgomery, particularly the Anne of Green Gables books and anything by Louisa May Alcott.
Books and reading were such a big part of my life that I requested a new bookshelf for my thirteenth birthhday when other kids my age were asking for clothes and make-up.
Over the years my tastes evolved, but the one constant was my love of reading. No matter what else was happening in my life, I could lose myself in a good book . . . until recently.
I’m having trouble finding books and many that I start fail to interest me. This concerns me. I can’t lose my favourite solitary pastime, especially now.
To rekindle my interest in reading, I’m going to post reviews of books I adore.
I’m open to suggestions of great books.