I could have started this blog an hour ago, but there’s Justified to be caught up on and, well, there’s Justified to be caught up on.
I’m trying to blog more. It’s been a struggle (clearly), because… there are many reasons. I come home from work and I’m fried. For months I’ve also done a lot of contract work and that means even more time in front of a computer screen, doing nothing for myself. Making money is not (is not) the same as doing something for oneself.
Last summer, a book agent wrote the following to me regarding my proposal:
Fraser’s story is funny and startling and as a mom and southerner I appreciate her perspective on giving up a lifestyle for the reality of a baby. Even so, the pacing, focus and theme feel erratic. A recovery memoir mixed with moms-who-drink humor is tough to pull off. These pages fall short because they fail to balance raw humor with a real quest for redefining herself as a mother. I appreciated the look, though. Thanks for sending.
I didn’t much speak of this. I just stopped sending queries and I stopped working on the massive piece that has taken up so much of my life since the summer of 2007. Simply stopped. I had worked hard, but not hard enough. I had wanted it, but not badly enough. And truth be told, she was right. Is right. When I switched gears to writing a recovery book, I took shortcuts. I pulled in some material from the first draft that couldn’t work in the second, and I knew it. Pure laziness. And the big one? I wasn’t fully authentic. Sometimes, shit isn’t funny. It shouldn’t be and it doesn’t have to be.
The sting has mostly worn off now. It’s at least worn off to the point that I can reread that paragraph and kinda nod and go, “Well yeah. Yeah.” That’s a damn sight better than nausea and despair, no? And so this weekend I began again. And so now that I’m all caught up on this delightful modern-cowboy drama, I begin again.