Of Writing a Book

The time has come, the walrus said, to just stop fussing around and just write the book. I've been dithering around, flitting here and there, enjoying myself, sleeping late, eating too much, talking of many things. And writing. I have been writing. And that being the case, I am awfully awfully close to reaching the end of this little project. Well, not the end, the bit where you announce that you've written it and breathe a sigh of relief before you sit down, weeping, to destory that over which you have so long spent yourself. I believe the technical term is Editing. But I think really it should be called something like I Can't Believe How Bad This Is WhatamIGonnaDo Aghhhhh.

Also, we have to go see the Alamo. It's what we do, when we come to San Antonio. We go to the Alamo. And we have to go back to the beach again. And so, really, I am faced with the reality that I shouldn't spend the few precious moments I have extra every day on this blog, which is almost as important to me as my own children….I mean, not really. I'm totally kidding. Obviously I love the children more than the blog. It doesn't even need to be said out loud. Where was I? Oh yes. I should spend every extra minute writing the book, not the blog. It's like, you know, when you've been calmly reading a book to the children, one chapter a day, and it's so methodical and fine, and you look out over the expanse of your life and congratulate yourself on your sobriety and the order of your ways, and then you get to some point in the book, usually toward the end, where it can't be helped, everyone needs to know what is going to happen next, and you wake up twelve hours later, your voice scratchy and gone, your back hurting from being slumped, unmoving, for so long, and see that you have lost your school day, and the laundry, and the kitchen, and you are practically in the pit of despair. All you have to show for yourself is that you finished reading one more book and you would have finished it anyway, tomorrow, or, at the most, the day after that. That's where I feel like I've got, only with writing. I shall wake up from a daze, a shadow of my former self, everyone angry and shouting, because apparently I couldn't hear or see them for however long.

But also, let's be realistic, I probably can't go a whole week, or even two, without blogging at all. I might break down and post here and there. Which means you should still Check Here Every Day. I'm just kidding. Don't do that. You have better things to do with your life. You could eat a bowl of ice cream, or um, I don't know, read someone else's blog. That would be terrible. Don't do that. You should unplug for the week because the Internet is bad. Just kidding. What a kidder I am. Anyway, who knows what tomorrow may bring. I may post, or I may not, but I Will Write The Book. I swear I will. I will totally write it. And go to the Alamo.

Have a lovely day! Or week, depending, or maybe even two weeks. Oh gosh. Let it not be like weeks and weeks.