This post right here, right now, is blog post #2323 since I started writing this blog 2, 323 days (6 1/3 years) ago. It has been wonderful up to this point because this is my daily writing journal, and readers get a chance to see inside my skull, deep into the shady recesses of my brain and twisted mind.
I never intended to write memoir -- it flung itself at me when my grad school mentor absconded to another part of the country, and I was left with one reliable thesis first reader and one irresponsible asshole of a second reader who kept me from walking at my own graduation (thankfully, an amazing second reader stepped forward at the last minute). By the way, I still hate that motherfucker and hope his entire world collapses onto him someday, leaving him poetry-less and story-less and professor-less and sad and pitiful. Yes, I am THAT petty.
I would like to take 2019 into another direction.
My four or five unfinished fiction manuscripts have been sitting patiently, whispering to me every so often, begging the question: Why do I keep trying to piece together a memoir in which I've lost total interest? My life really isn't that fascinating; it's mundane and typical.
No one gives one crap about mundane and typical anymore, not even this gal.
2019 will be the year of the novel.
I am going to cut back on blog-posting to probably once a week, and I will dedicate the one-to-three hours a day that I normally spend on the blog to working on the manuscripts I already have in progress.
So, here's to 2323 and to 2019. Let's see in a year if I've been as true to myself as I've been to all of you. Happy New Year -- see you in a week or so.
