Okay, so picture this: a mid-life, housewifely woman leans a hand against the door jamb, the other hand on her hip. She’s looking at a man, balding, her husband, sitting at his computer, fingers perched on the keys in front of him. He glances up at her, says, “I feel that I have at least one more unpublished novel in me.”
Damn! Reverse the sexes, and there we are. Even the dog curling at the feet of the writer, asleep as usual.
I don’t really understand this need to keep on writing.
Of course, I didn’t understand my compulsive, neurotic hours of attempting to format, publish, and sell my e-books either. In the past months, I became obsessed with my search for the true path to successful marketing of books that exist only in the digital ether. That path, I began to see, led to my friends who bought my books in an effort to save my sanity.
Then, one day last week, I rose from my daily ritual of visiting blogs, writers’ sites and groups, some of which it seemed only wanted my money, Facebook, and web sites of successful authors who published the old-fashioned way, scattering writerly comments here and there, and I found that my right leg had gone dead. The dog scrambled under the bed I as dragged my body to the bathroom, other parts of me having gone dead also.
“I am not having any fun!” I yelled at my husband who came to the door of my writing space a few moments later. He knows better than to try to soothe me at such moments.
“And?” he answered, not flinching or even raising an eyebrow.
“And I quit!”
So, today I’m beginning my fifth book. A painful, anxious-making obsession is being replaced by kinder, gentler one, I suspect, and I will continue to sit for hours at my keyboard, the dog for safety’s sake moving away from me when I finally stand up.
I have at least one more unpublished novel in me.