I kind of want to keep quiet about this, because I don't want to brag about something that isn't finished, or jinx it, or, especially, slow myself from working on it. I know how dangerous resting places can be, soft cushiony nests lined with laurel leaves. Nests that invite you to stay awhile, have a snack, forget the life-giving project you're working on.
Nevertheless, I'm not sure how I got here.
I mean, I do. I sat my "butt in chair," as Anne Lamott advises all writers to do, I opened up the Word document, and I typed.
Over and over, I typed.
And now I find myself at 25,000 (plus!) words.
Anne Lamott prays three major prayers:
Help me help me help me.
Thank you thank you thank you.
She prayed the first two for a long time, then added the third as she got older.
I suppose I have followed a similar suit. A lot of grappling fear and wondrous moments of peace and relief and bliss, with quick words in edgewise to the Guy who watches it all.
And now, as I find myself looking at the bottom of my draft and seeing a 5-digit number, I just whisper into the air:
My book -- MY book! -- is 25,000 words. About halfway to where I expect it will end up.
And to think the idea -- a young adult novel about a girl struggling with anxiety -- just came about in my head while I was simply driving to lunch.
It bears repeating:
[Also THANK YOU! for all your support. Xo]