Okay, I know it’s only been four days since I made my resolution to write every day, but so far, I have–I’ve actually been doing it. I’ve sat, butt-in-chair, for two to three hours each day this week, and my only gripe at this point is that it’s hard to tear myself away because the work is going so well. I should have done this months ago!

I am so into the rhythm of my book right now, that sometimes I come out of it and don’t recognize the life around me for a few minutes; it feels strange and foreign.

I finally feel like it’s coming together, the way I always wanted it to. I thought I was finished with it, and sent it off for all kinds of submissions. I did, in fact, get a few tantalizing nibbles of interest here and there, but nothing more (and what’s worse, no constructive feedback to work with from anyone who rejected it).

I think that was what was probably blocking me, was feeling like I didn’t really know in what direction to take the book next, since there wasn’t any feedback from the “professionals” out there. The readers I’d already had go over it for me had nothing but praise for it (and given that they’re editors themselves, I took them at their word).

So all the while that I wasn’t actively revising it, the book sat in the back of my mind, stewing, fermenting. I think the break from it was good, because there was so much more to the story than even I’d realized; I feel like I’m only just now starting to see all the different layers of it that I’d been missing, and I love peeling them back, one by one, to see what’s coming next. It’s a really cool process which no normal human is likely to understand, so just take my word for it.

Unfortunately, the proof is in the pudding (or in this case, in a written contract) in the writing business. Even my very own daughter yesterday informed me that she’d told her friends that I wasn’t a writer yet–ouch. I said, “What do you mean I’m not a writer? I write, I get paid to do so–doesn’t that make me a writer?”

She shook her head disparagingly. “Mom, you’re not a writer until your novel gets published. When are you going to do that?”

Ouch again. Good question, indeed–when am I going to do that? Not sure if this was wisdom coming from the mouth of my babe, or if she was just ticked off with me because I left her hanging when I took a break after Chapter Four of the youth novel I’ve been writing for her.

I can see where one might be annoyed by waiting too long for a cliffhanger to be resolved, but wish she wouldn’t take it out on my poor, battered self-esteem. (Writers spend too much time alone–it’s really easy to beat up their psyches.)

So, I’ve got about half an hour left before the kids get home. I already put in my two hours on the novel revision, so now, I’m going to try to placate the world’s harshest critic (my daughter) and see if I can’t get her back down off the cliff where I left her four months ago when I stopped work on her book.

A little bribery never hurts…

No, it’s not what you’re thinking–that was just the phrase that popped into my head as I looked at the clock and realized that another two hours of writing time has flown by. I thought this second major revision was going to be a real slog, but I’ve been working on it so intensely inside my head these past few weeks of my hiatus that my words are overflowing, pouring forth faster than I can type. (Thank God I gave up doing my writing longhand!)

Honestly, I’m in another world when I’m writing, a world where I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t drink–I just write. After several weeks of not being able to be in that world, I think my writer’s soul was starving, but now that I’m back in it, I find that my appetite is not even close to being satiated by the measly two hours a day I’m allotting myself. I could write all day, and still beg for more.

But I know that I must stop writing now and return to the real world, because there are things that must be done that are based in the bricks and mortar of my everyday life. But tearing myself away from that other life–well, it does: It hurts so good. It hurts, because I don’t want to stop, but it is good because my writing is flowing so easily these last couple of days. Yes, very good, indeed.  

Can’t wait until tomorrow morning (or maybe later today, if I can whip through all the mundane tasks that await me now). Wish me luck, because Chapter Three awaits, and it’s a doozy.

Okay, so today, I got off to a pretty good start on one of my resolutions, which is to spend at least two hours writing each day (well, at least Monday through Friday. On days when the kids are in school. And I don’t have class. And I don’t want to work out. And it’s too cold to walk the dog.)

Just kidding. My resolution really is to spend at least two hours writing each day, no matter what. It will be a little more difficult, I admit, when the kids are home and the weather gets warmer, etc., etc., etc., but I have also admitted to myself that discipline will ultimately either be my key or [the lack thereof] will be my downfall. To that end, I decided that I would begin practicing the “butt-in-the-chair” philosophy I’ve heard touted by other so-called [more]successful writers.

So today I came in from the bus stop, planted my butt in the chair,  and disappeared into another world. When I looked up next, over three hours had passed. Looks like this could be a dangerous resolution for me to keep.  And while I don’t think I will ever be as insanely focused as the one writer I heard of who ignored the pile of dog vomit on her living room floor in order to stick to her self-prescribed writing regimen, still, I can’t wait to see just what kind of literary havoc I can wreak with a little discipline and (let’s face it) a really flat butt.

Well, here it is, dinnertime on New Year’s Day, and I’ve already broken several resolutions: I haven’t written anything (except posts to Facebook–those don’t count); I’ve crabbed at my children; I didn’t take Loki for a walk (in my defense, it was a high of just 8 degrees today; it would have been inhumane); I did not take the ornaments off the Christmas tree; I ate two dessert bars from the tray my neighbor brought over Sunday (Bars! Bars! Curse you, bars–too delicious for mere mortals to resist). All in all, it has been a day filled with the sting of failure.

Why do we do this to ourselves every year, this nonsense of making resolutions? What makes us think that, simply because there’s a new numeral at the end of the year, we will do things any differently than we have for the previous 365 days that preceded the big ball-drop in Times Square? I have no answer for that, and now I am filled with disgust at myself for having broken yet another resolution: not to ask myself any more stupid rhetorical questions. Now I am really depressed. (There’s another one broken.) I’d better stop before I hurt myself.

Sometimes I wonder if the real reason we make resolutions each year is because doing so is a socially-accepted form of mass failure. It’s okay to admit to breaking your resolutions because everyone breaks them–you know, misery loves company. Boy, that’s a depressing thought.

On the other hand, maybe the reason we make (and, inevitably, break) these resolutions each year is just a reflection of our dogged need for hope, hope that we can do better, be better.

I would imagine that somewhere between the two lies the truth of the matter.

Well, whatever it is, in the spirit of the day, I resolve now that I will pick my resolutions up off the floor, dust them off and strap them back on. I will grit my teeth and vow that tomorrow I will do better.  Tomorrow, I will write for two hours! Tomorrow, I will be patient with my children! Tomorrow, the cold be damned, I will take my dog for a walk! Tomorrow, I will not eat any chocolate–ha ha ha! I almost had you, didn’t I? Me, not eat chocolate…that’s a good one!

But I will try to do better tomorrow, I swear I will. That’s the whole idea, isn’t it?  New Year’s Day is all about Tomorrow, the national holiday for optimists everywhere, a day to imagine how much better we can do, how much better we can be, on a day other than today, and that sounds pretty good to me.

So here’s to Tomorrow! Happy New Year!

Well, I thought I’d spend some time today doing some actual writing, but once I did all of the catching up from the weekend and worked my way through submissions and query packets for two different literary agents, I find that I now have two minutes before my children will arrive home from school.

Honestly, I feel as though I spend all of the “butt-in-the-chair” writing time that all the writing experts talk about creating query letters! Argh!

All you agents out there, and publishers–isn’t there an easier way? Maybe you could all get together and standardize your formats!

Some of you request a bio; 1 page. Some of you request no bio. Some of you request a bio of 50 words maximum.

Some of you ask for a sample chapter. Some of you specify absolutely no samples unless specifically requested. Some of you ask for the complete manuscript.

Some of you mandate snail-mail submissions only. Some of you are adamant about only accepting e-mail queries.

Some of you say, “Hey, we receive thousands of submissions and queries each month; if we don’t get back to you inside of two months, please feel free to drop us a line.” Some of you say (a bit bluntly, in my opinion), “Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Um, no, on second thought, don’t call us. Ever.”

What is a starving (all right, I’m not starving, I’m actually kind of overfed at the moment after half of a Three Musketeers Bar) writer to do? Is this what you all mean by telling me to write every day?

Honestly, after an afternoon of laboring over this kind of writing, self-publishing is starting to make me drool (or wait, maybe that’s spinal cord damage from sitting hunched over my laptop for too long…)

Sigh. Here comes the bus…