Once upon a time there was a lady who thought, "I'm gonna write a blog about writing a book." And she did, for a little while. Until one day an evil hag came to her castle and tied her up in miles and miles and miles of rope. "Now," cackled the weathered old crone, who just happened to hate romance novels, "no more writing for you." Until one day, the fair writer was freed by...
Ok. You're not buying it are you. I bet you're sitting there reading saying, "Right Vicki. You were held hostage by a regency-repulsed retiree. If that's the best excuse you have for not writing, then I'm logging out."
You're right. No need for excuses. Cause I don't have one. The summer came. Long evenings. Long cold evenings with rain, drizzle and fog, perhaps, but still ok to sear meat to on the open grill and consume wine. And I just sort of forgot that I was writing a book. Or a blog. And that's not a good thing, is it. I mean, how the heck am I supposed to finish a novel, when I just kept forgetting to write the bloody thing. And as for the blog, well, I convientently forgot that too. And then, last night as I sat at my computer, frustrated with work because I've been working a lot lately, goofing around posting pictures of my cats and fish and mom's dog and the birds from last winter on Facebook - which I never do because I hate Facebook most days - I thought, "Why the hell am I not writing?"
So that's a good question. And there's no good answer other than, " Right. Back to it." So there you have it. I'm not making any blog promises now that I might not keep, but if I get all my work done this weekend, then maybe I'll get back to writing. After all, there's three months left to the year. And I said this was the year I was going to finish my novel. So stay tuned, friends. Because as the fall approaches, I expect so will the words.