Conversation had today with nice barista at coffee shop:
Her: What are your plans for today?
Me: Uh…some writing, I guess.
Her: Oh, what do you write?
Super long pause.
Me: Stuff. About, you know, things.
Her (with the patient tone of someone used to dealing with very slow people): For work? Or personal writing?
Me (voice oddly squeaky): A novel.
Her: Oh, so both then!
I try to respond to her pleasant humor but my face is frozen in a look of terror. Because I have admitted that I have artistic pretensions and now I want to die.
It is not always clear how well I will do if I ever actually manage to publish something and anyone tries to talk to me about it. I mean, I think if I knew it was coming I could handle it but if I was unprepared I think my default might be to slowly back away and then go vomit.*
Reached 60k words for my manuscript for class. As I edit though it keeps bobbing down a little and then back up. 60k isn’t really long enough–it should be at least 70k probably but it feels like progress.
In class, we discussed endings. It was actually kind of lovely hearing everyone’s attempt at writing an ending for their story–makes me really interested in seeing how everyone’s stories evolve. Also, I’m wondering if I should rethink mine.
This afternoon I began going over notes that I made for the manuscript back in early March, seeing which of them I’ve actually incorporated into the manuscripts and which ones I still should.
Nothing. Oh, the shame.
*Dear Potential Agent: Totally kidding!
Dear Everyone else: I’m totally not kidding.