You write. It's what you do. If you're smart, you don't talk to much about it. Blatherskites sap energy. But you, you're a writer, dammit. You're going to buckle down, churn out another thousand words, another short story, another novel by the end of the year, whenever your year ends. If you're lucky. If the phone doesn't ring. If you don't have to go to work. If your S.O. doesn't leave you. If the stars line up. If you can figure how to get your main character moving again, dodging bullets, suffering cuckoldry, or the slings and arrows of some other outrageous fortune. Through it all, you write.
Or so I tell myself. As I find myself in the middle of writing a new novel, I try to tell myself all these things, to cast myself as Clint Eastwood's character in all those spaghetti westerns, steely glint in my eye, putrid cheroot making the rounds of my parched lips.
But my pleasant fantasies are always interrupted by realities and imperatives that transcend my precious imagination. There's a new semester to lure me away from my writing, new students to shepherd and inspire, new reading to slog my way through. There's my family and their needs, my sons in middle school, needing dad, asking questions. There's the inn, the duties there, the frozen pipes, the dirty floors, the constant tinkering with an old house. There's my beautiful wife, who needs me so much, just to be there, not imploding, not losing my mind, not drifting through my fiction. There's skiing, skiing, skiing.
All of this is to say that the new novel--which isn't a novel at all, but three novellas--is moving along, if only at a snail's pace. And while I write, I wait, I wait to hear from Quintessential Press, where The Innkeeper's Husband is spending its days in consideration. It's maddening, it's all so maddening.