Whew! I’ve finally finished a typed draft of my entire five-book collection, having edited, finally rewritten the ending of, and retyped the novella. After a week of refusing to do anything creative, I’m editing the memoir yet again. Funny, I’m primarily a poet, yet the three books of poetry are not giving me any trouble this summer. Shouldn’t my “passion” be driving me crazy?
I don’t know how fiction writers can stand all that typing, typing, typing, knowing full well they might get to the end and go Phooey! then rewrite or toss half the darn book. That’s dedication!
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