I’m writing a book.
No, I’m not; I’ve started, but for months I’ve been telling myself I’m doing it, when in fact I’m just circling at 30,000 feet. Talking is not doing. Time to land the damned plane.
There’s fog and a wicked 20-knot crosswind below 800 feet. The carb is icing up. Are those geese milling around halfway down, just where it’s too late to gun it and go around again? Yes. Of course, there are. Perfect.
F*ck it. I’m going in. The fuel gauge is kissing the big E and I swear there’s smoke coming out of the starboard engine. I have to take piss. No choices left.
I’ve got characters waiting for me to get back to them. They’re looking at me, and at each other, killing time, waiting. Toes tapping. Knives being sharpened. Lives on hold. They are not happy with me. And with this bunch of psychos, this could get ugly, fast.
I’m happy I started. I’m proud of getting 60,000 words into a draft (maybe a leetle too proud. I may need to murder a lot of them.) I like the characters and want to let them live out the stories I’ve put them in. That’s not enough. Time to finish. There’s mystery in there, questions, breathtaking stupidity and evil and sex. Lots of sex. What’s not to like?
“Do not repeat the tactics which have gained you one victory, but let your methods be regulated by the infinite variety of circumstance.” — Sun Tzu.
It is time to ride to the sound of the guns, ” ‘Cry ‘Havoc!’, and let slip the dogs of war.”