Oh, be very, very careful when you announce to the entire Interwebs that you will absolutely, definitely have the third draft of your novel done by spring. I mean, of course there’s still plenty of time, but the calendar is already filling up and there is client work to be done and I can see how if I’m not careful, nothing’s going to happen.
And then I had to go and crack open Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones, and now everything must change. The pacing, the complex inner lives, the tackling head-on of the most evil possible impulses in humanity with language so precise and sparing that it’s almost compassionate. The absolute, unwavering resistance to sentimentality. Oh, Alice Sebold, you are either going to save me or be my undoing: call me melodramatic, or grandiose, but I don’t want to put a first novel out into the world that doesn’t at least try very hard to be half as good as yours. No pressure, of course.
Of course, not putting a novel out into the world at all would be worse. So, back at it. (And in other news, the seeds on my windowsill are sprouting, except for the stubborn eggplant. Time, time.)
PS: In a different universe, here’s my latest at Today’sParent.com, on Rowan’s lovely hair and when I am and am not bothered when people mistake him for a girl.