When I awoke on Sunday morning I had an enormous anxiety attack. I thought it was Monday. And Monday was the day I’d planned to start writing again. Almost all Sunday I felt depressed.
Later I realized I felt that way because I wasn’t at all excited about writing the YA. I had a title and that was all. What was the point of starting any book like that. Beneath that was the fact that I didn’t want to write a YA, after all. (Sorry ll) I wanted to write my flash fiction piece and go back to the book I started last spring. Suddenly I was excited.
The next day, Monday, was the first day of my writing life in 2010. I felt good when I got up. By the time I got to my desk I was eager. I worked on my flash fiction story and got a first draft. Today I finished it and sent it off.
Tomorrow I’ll read the 80 pages of the novel I started last year. What if I hate it? What if it’s terrible? I don’t know.
I can say this. I feel wonderful having written the flash fiction piece. Nothing makes me feel better than writing. I have bad days when I’m writing but they’re worth all the days I’m not.
I hope I like the book I started, it’ll make my life easier. I have no illusions about selling it but that isn’t the point at this juncture of my life.
Cross your fingers that I like it.