We leave today. I am doing last minute laundry and feeling bad about the wretched state of the house to which I consign my husband. Leaving family to be a writer -- hard stuff. And yet how else to really get things done? I miss them already; my daughter wants me to take her stuffed animal with me to keep me company.
Yesterday other teachers were like children, wild-eyed and irreverant at 3 pm. I couldn't quite participate (no more teachers, no more books...) because I think what we are about to do isn't quite summer revelry. To do lists, self-imposed deadlines, attention to detail. Not quite lounging poolside. Does every novelist go through this to finish the first one? The complete un-fun of working when others relax? This is why so many famous writers drank too much, had unhappy wives, and a very large trust fund.
I am excited, I swear, but in that first-day-of-school nervous anticipation way, not in that last-day-of-school Bacchanalian revelry way.
I am not packing a single pair of pants without an elastic waistband. If I'm going to be working, I will at least be cosy damn it.
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A good friend took fifteen years, twelve steps, and a year-and-a-half of seminary to finish her first novel. It was long. When an agent read it, she said, you've written two! I just want one! Over the years, another novel had crept into the original story. So, my friend excised the intruder and polished the first. She's on her fourth now.
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