I don't like it when the phone rings in my house. But I like it even less when the call is for me. A woman I met at a party this weekend has called and left a message for me. She wants to talk about something we enjoyed discussing at the party.
Now here's the thing.
I've talked already. I went to the party and I did all the talking I plan to do for a full week. Now I am writing. I write all day. Not always happily or willingly or with mad love in my heart for writing. Quite often I hate it. But it's what I do. Over years I've learned when the writing sucks, when I hate it---that's when I'm in the most danger of losing it. I've learned to dig deep and shut out all distractions and potential derailments. I've learned to stick with a troubled book like a fireman sticks with a person in a burning building or a mountain climber sticks to a mountain.
I have to get this book and another one finished in semi-finished draft form before the end of August. It's a deadline no one cares about or values except me. So do I keep working or call this person back? Now you know why writers are considered arrogant, nasty brutes. I feel like biting somebody. Where's the bloody phone number?
BOOK READ THIS MONTH: "Up and Down" by Terry Fallis. Funny, goofy read. I liked it. Book club was meh. I think you have to be in the mood for light satire and I was.