Easter, the real DEADLINE

On a well known agent’s blog recently, I promised a group of online writer-friends that I would finish my on again, off again novel (which has a great premise) and have it ready for querying by Easter this year.

Will I live up to my promise?

Hell no!

Am I disappointed, am I a slacker, do I feel like a failure?

 

Absolutely not.

I’ve been working on that ball and chain, and fitting in my promise to finish it as best I can, and I am not enjoying a minute of it. Recently I figured out how to handle a huge stumbling block regarding background and truly got excited about sailing through to the next port. And then…waves, undertow, sand in my grannies, I wasn’t loving it. No joy, no pleasure, it felt like a huge anchor weight and waste of time.  

It’s shelved.

Confession time.

I have always believed that in order to be a successful writer, I mean a really successful writer, traditionally publishing novels is the best path between the lines to the end of the pool and a place on the winner’s stand. Because  I meander my words by drifting, I’ll never be a novelist.

Nope never.

Don’t wanna be. It’s not in me and boys and girls that’s okay.

I remember reading an article many, many years ago written by the great Mr. King. To paraphrase, he said…write what you are best at writing. He added that he wanted to write the great American novel but knew that horror writing was what he did best. Duh, ya think! So that’s what he did.

I am an essay writer.

I am a writer of columns and articles.

Yes, I am a storyteller but the stories I write are about me. They are about my family and the collective family I call all of us.

I have been published hundreds of times in newspapers and magazines. My life has literally been an open book, written as validation that we all share the same angst, anger, love, compassion and confusion.  We struggle, we fear, we excel, we feel joy and drink in support like a parched camel with a hump drained dry. (Author’s note: I know camels don’t store water in their humps but I liked the comparison.)

Nope, no more fiction for me. It’s non-fiction all the way to the (tiny) bank (account).

Because I recently retired my column, which ran in eight newspapers, I now must find a place to place my (HUMBLE) brilliance. Workin’ on that. Maybe by Easter this year. Yeh, Easter that’s a great deadline. Did I ever mention that my mother, a lapsed Catholic girl, died on an Easter Sunday? (God’s last laugh.)

 

Now that’s a deadline.