Before we go further, we have to talk about the P-word: publication.
I want it.
Now. Often. And accompanied by immense public acclaim and financial reward.
I want to go on book tours and do readings. I want to be wined and dined by the literati.
I want to be the literati.
I want a loft in The Village. I want a croft on the Isle of Mull.
I want it all. And I can have it.
The thing is, before I can have it, I have to finish a manuscript.
That last has become a bit problematic.
My critique partner and I have discussed the situation at length. We’re weary of writers who have a string of books to their credit advising us to forget about being published, to “just write for yourself.” Easy for them to talk.
Unfortunately, they seem to have a point. The more we obsess about agents, editors, and cover design, the flatter our prose becomes. And the more we feel like tossing our multiple revisions into the air and walking away.
Which would be a shame after so much work, and which would probably make the BookPeople barista, who’s been so nice to us, really mad.
So at a recent powwow we decided that from now on, we will write just for the hell of it.
We are now, officially, the Just for the Hell of It Writers.
I should make clear that my critique partner has finished one manuscript and has won a manuscript contest, so she’s considerably closer to being literati than I am. She says, however, that her accomplishment hasn’t made manuscript #2 any easier to birth.