That was my week. I was burning through my first draft, fixing errors left right and center, adding funny little bits, just so pleased with myself. And I should be. I edited eight chapters this week. That might be a new record for me. Oooh a challenge. I’ll edit nine chapters next week. Laughing.
I need that goosing. I need a cattle prod to force me into productivity. That’s why Nanowrimo is so awesome for me. The 30 day deadline brings out the time managing, responsibility juggling writing queen. Otherwise I let things drift. There are always so many things more important than my writing hobby. The little quiet voice that argues something I love as much as I love writing should always be important is often overshadowed by the clamor of husband, kid, and dogs.
Favorite bits from this week’s editing:
At home for a long weekend of husband hunting under threat of being locked up in an asylum:
Arguing with her mother about the weekend:
My mother was behind her desk writing letters and she slid the one she was working on under her blotter in response to my greeting. “Hello Margaret my dear. You are home early. Excited about the weekend?”
I smiled. “Mother, it’s time for complete honesty. I do not want to get married.”
“Nonsense darling every woman wants to get married.” My mother dismissed my opinion without further thought.
Oh to be that secure in your belief system. “I do not. I am writing. I want to be a writer.”
“Do you really think it’s wise to get too involved in those intellectual pursuits? Some men would balk from such a wife.”
I sighed. “I will say this very slowly and with words of one syllable. I. do. Not. Want. To. Get. Mar. ried.”
“I believe you will find married is really two syllables darling. A writer would know such things.”
Having given in to the inevitable:
Mother left in a whirl of self-satisfaction and finery. I sat down to write a few more scenes long hand. Sneaking down to my writing cave was not possible now; my maid would be here in mere minutes to dress me. I allowed her to talk me into a long, gossamer pale pink gown, my hair up in curls, and make up more than my usually simple mascara and lipstick. I barely looked like myself. An idea came to me while I looked at the almost stranger in the mirror. Perhaps I could pretend I was not myself. I could be the daughter my mother wanted or at least pretend to be the daughter she imagined. Or even more fun, I could be someone different for each bachelor. I was starting to look forward this weekend. I might need to take notes so I could remember which me was toying with which he. I laughed out loud at myself. With a flick of my curling tendrils I glided forth into battle.
T.A. Henry 