The Dump

Every writer has a bad week.

I wish I could call this a bad week. It's wasn't exactly bad. I hit a snag and didn't put forth the effort to overcome it until I had spent a week reading passages from Monte Cristo and watching episode after episode of Mad Men. I also practiced my instrument a lot. This wasn't writer's block—this was laziness.

(And an ugly truth about writer's block that writer's never admit is that eighty percent of the time it's laziness.)

This afternoon I forced myself to sit down. I dug up a new, energetic piece of music, plugged myself in and then got to writing. If I don't start Chapter Fourteen by Wednesday, I'm going to kill something.

Work is going to be killer this week.

And I'm miserable because I know that publisher's take most of the money, even though writers do most of the work. What the hell is up with that?

In an ideal universe I'd be an established writer and I'd go rogue. That's what I'd do. I'd publish my book on my own, and I'd take the other talented writers I know under my wing, and I'd be a part of something big.

But at the moment I'm just a nobody with an unfinished manuscript. So, I have to work on that...