I am writing something. Because I claim to be a writer and even started this blog, that ought to be no news worth waking the King for. Maybe I would wake the Queen, but definitely leave the King alone with news like this.
What I would tell the Queen, though, once we reach the conversation stage, is that I have not seriously written for almost a year, since I finished a novel last summer and have been blowing kisses and washing windshields for literary agents ever since, in a very futile attempt to have one of them care. I think the only thing I’ve written since last summer in fact is a couple of really short pieces that I hoped were funny. I still hope they’re funny.
But now I’m writing something longer. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m wondering if it could turn into a novel, but jeeeeez that’s a lot of work. And unlike my normal method of working on a novel, I just started writing, pushing out words, the way I used to when I started writing seriously around the age of 20, with no idea where this is going. I just finally needed to write, something, maybe anything, but words need to get out or the container would be harmed.
In the novel so far, our hero is a scalawag (I’m conceiving of him as a scalawag) named Benedict. Maybe I’m imagining him like myself, except without the bad personality traits, plus his life is interesting. He’s kind of lazy, he doesn’t exactly go out of his way to break rules, he just doesn’t comprehend why they exist, and he’s a bit of a sensualist. He also finds himself transported into the past early in the book, and I know, I know, it’s been done already, but so has everything. I included a unique touch. He has a joint in his pocket.
Or maybe that’s been done too, and I don’t care. At least I’m writing. What are you doing?