I'm in the midst of writing a new book, and I've been laughing. A lot. If truth be told, I've been shamelessly cracking myself up. I dare say that as far as my women's fiction writing is concerned, this may be "The One!"
At this stage of the writing game (a smidgen shy of the halfway point), the book is brilliant. I'm writing prose that will move readers to tears, incite unbridled laughter, and cause intense personal transformations. Said another way, I'm handcrafting words like beer makers in an Oregon microbrewery.
Of course, as any writer worthy of the title knows, the first half is the easiest. Precisely two-thirds of the way through is where we want to slit our muse's throat and resort to more mindless occupations, like flying jet planes or performing brain surgery.
Thankfully for me (and, especially, my loved ones), I'm at that cozy, delusional place we writers lust after; the place where we know we're writing something brilliant, lasting, that will win us awards, be envied by all, and afford us a mansion in the Hamptons.
I adore this place and plan to luxuriate in it for at least 10,000 more words. At that point, I may ask said loved ones to flush my sleeping pills, dispose of sharp objects, and unplug both large and small electrical appliances.
Until then, however, I FREAKING ROCK!
Now, who would like the privilege to pass me - the next Stephen King, Bill Shakespeare, Kate Atkinson, Chelsea Handler, and Erma Bombeck combined - my slippers, give me a hot stone massage, and feed me wine and chocolates? (And, please, people, no fighting. Remember, it's all a basket of kittens until someone gets hurt.)
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