And now I wait. My agent has my newest book, and if she hasn’t already, she’ll send it where she will and await a reply. In the meantime, I’m getting antsy.
I know, I know—I just said that I’m going to devote myself to The Purge. And I will. (I have been.) But I feel a tingle/a bubbling-up/a desire/a need to write something. Not just something. A book. I want to write a book.
I want to be in the throes of writing a book.
I want to feel that angsty passion and self-doubt and thought fatigue until I punch through to an idea, or a theme, or just one sentence that connects me to that part of myself that isn’t an author or a mother or any of my other selves, but is essential to all of them.
When I started my last novel, I kept a diary. I entered episodes of synchronicity, puddles of tears, moments of joy. When I look back on it, I see that my entries documented the fact that writing a book is mostly a miserable experience punctuated by bursts of exuberance.
Those bursts are what I live for.
Recently, at least three friends have asked me to write the novel I conceived before I thought I could write a novel, and now I can’t get it out of my mind. I started a diary of it, pulling in ideas and synchronistic symbols from more than a decade ago. I can’t promise it will become what I once wished of it—or the exponentially more nuanced version I’d expect of it now—but I think I will try.
So here we go: BLOODLINES.