You can't write a novel in an afternoon!

I've told myself that a few dozen times over the past year, and yet I still want to believe it. You can read a novel in an afternoon--either a short novel or a long afternoon, but writing takes time. It takes sweat and tears and a whole lot of effort. I used to joke that GoodReads, the website where everyone and their dog can review a book and give their two bits should really be called, "Disgruntled English Majors." I seems everyone who doesn't write has fairly strong opinions about those who do, especially those who write something that gets published. I guess I cant really claim to have gotten anything published since I self-published, but the difficulties in writing can be no less real, regardless of how the book comes to be.

I was excited to get back to writing as soon as the Mother's Day Open House was over. We had nearly a thousand people go through out home over the weekend and I was bushed after that. My kiln had some problems during the final firing before the open house which resulted in part of the door melting and leaving it very difficult to open. I spent a day and a half making the necessary repairs and then dedicated the rest of the week to writing.  Or so I thought. Writing, at least for me requires several consecutive hours of relative silence. Sometimes that is difficult to find. Okay, so maybe that is always difficult to find. I realized I am out of practice and the magic doesn't always happen exactly when I want or need it to happen. I made some progress, but it was slow. It is a little better this week, but if I am not distracted by people dropping by or phone calls, I am distracted by the fact that I have an art festival coming up in a month and I need to replenish my supply of pots. I am behind on orders, too. And I don't care that I'm behind on orders which is both liberating and disappointing. I am distracted--maybe that is the best way to put it. Distracted, feeling like I have returned to my nets after knowing I am supposed to be doing something else. Faith is tough, at least for me, and patience is even harder.

That being said, I am more excited about this story than I have ever been. I know all writers draw on their personal experiences, but I am a little surprised by how autobiographical this book is becoming. Some of it involves dark pieces of history from my younger years and family drama that is still going on. It has made me pensive and moody and somedays has made me want to avoid delving deeper. And yet I know I need to plow on. I feel strongly that this book will help others, offer hope and grace and love, and give people courage to plow forward. I am still hoping to have the book ready for Christmas, but if I don't make some substantial progress in the next few months, I will have to postpone it again.  I hate to do that.

I am not sure why other people write, but I will tell you honestly that I write because I have to--because the voices won't leave me alone--because the story haunts me until I let it out. It is never easy. It seems to always be expensive, and it takes way longer than I think it should.

So, I am off to write. I fed my fears by making pots this morning. Now I can feed my faith, by writing.