I’ve been going through old posts and found this one from 2008. I never think I accomplish my goals. But, by God, here’s one I did:
I am going to write a book. There, I’ve said it, right out loud so now it is real. This involves the shifting of my tectonic plates:
• First, I need to think of something to write about.
• Then, I have to cut billable hours. I like what I do and am jealous when my clients seem happy with anyone else, so this isn’t easy – think in terms of an old thoroughbred watching the kids thunder out of the gate.
• Cutting back on work hours is a delicate balancing act. I need to make enough to sustain those goodies I simply can’t live without: an occasional pork chop special at the Corner House, reflexology, getting my hair dyed by someone else, four-adjective coffee.
• I am creating maybe 15 hours a week that I can designate to writing a book. I need chunks of time; I am not one of those writers who can produce in short bursts between the flotsam and jetsam of the day.
That’s the plan. But, honestly, I am terrified by it. I have made my living by writing ads, so I already know a lot about writing fiction. But long format stuff? Jeez. Wish me luck.
Today, I have just completed my fifth novel (let the edit begin). Other writers are beginning to ask my advice. I have been invited to speak to groups. It’s not all rosy, of course. Money will always be hard to come by. I go through big fat depressions. I feel like a rescue animal when anyone reaches out in kindness. But, boy oh boy, what a treat to fulfill a resolution every now and then.