We’re right on the cusp of spring. The plum tree out back is dragging its feet over blooming; the snowball bush down the road only has a few lone petals standing out like white rags on a sinking ship, the birds are going nuts but the squirrels are oddly quiet. It feels like the world’s holding its breath before the plunge into blooming and growing again. I’m okay with this.
…I just deleted a whole long entry about how terrified I am about taking on yet another project that involves a type of book I’ve never written before. Going outside my comfort zone is good; I think I can do this, I think it will stretch me and I will (hopefully) grow. Of course, I could end up in a flaming wreck on my living room floor, sobbing and drooling with my cerebellum fused, my agent and editors and readers dumping me in disgust. Too soon to tell. Of course, the fear threatens paralysis, and sheer stubborn bloody-mindedness is the only way through.
Good thing I’m good at that. Or at least, well-practiced.
With that cheerful thought, I’m going to go get started on the rest of the day. Yea though I walk through the valley of plot tangles, I shall fear no revision, for I’ve got the Muse chained up in the basement and neither of us are leaving until we’ve given this our best shot. *cracks knuckles* I may end up a drooling mess, but at least I’ll have tried it. That’s all I can hope for.
Over and out.