The good news: I am on a writing tear.
The bad news: it’s to the detriment of literally everything else in my life, including my two blogs.
All this time I’ve been whining and petitioning (the universe, my muse, my sense of discipline? Idk. I’ve been begging somebody) for the words to return, I forgot how demanding The Muse can be when she arrives.
Cooking meals? Exercise? A stop on my evening commute for anything but popping open SimpleNote to fix that nagging paragraph? Returning texts? Answering phone calls?
We no do none of that.
So what am I writing, exactly?
Well… L – O – L.
For one, I’m working on the final installment of my Scandal Westeros fanfic series and after months of running on the fumes of stalled storylines, it’s cooking with gas. I have the ending and the major set pieces in mind and it’s just a matter of filling in the gaps with good prose.
I say “just” as if good prose isn’t the hardest part.
Then, there’s the other thing. Which started when I scrolled Netflix last Thursday, saw the words “originally published on Wattpad,” and figured I, too, needed to get in on the trashy self-indulgent Wattpad novel game if not for my own amusement, then for the long shot of becoming the next Blanka Lipinska with an Instagram full of photos of me and the swoon-worthy actor I cast as my literal walking wet dream that Netflix paid me millions of dollars to produce.
Have you seen the world lately? A woman can dream, right?
Anyway. I have a pen name and the barest outline of a plot, but from my Wattpad research, they favor “less plot, more vibes” so who knows if I’ll need much more than an outline? We’ll see. No, I’m not telling you what this story is. For now, I will cryptically refer to it as #TheOtherThing and you will let my nearly 40-year-old ass have my fun.