Writing my novel—whether its throwing a rough draft down on paper or fine-tuning a paragraph–is one of the most enjoyable activities I know. The crazier my life becomes, the more worries swirling around the room, the more enticing to dive into a world of my creation. A world I rule. Only in my novel do I have absolute power. Problems and worries disappear as imagination takes over. My slice of zen. Cathartic writing. Being inside my characters’ heads is ever so much more entertaining than pondering my life.
“Time to go. We’ll be late.” My husband says as I sit at the computer. “You can finish the scene when you get back.”
He is wrong. I finish the scene in my head as we drive. I finish the scene as we arrive at the party. I finish the scene while making small talk.
And then I start another.