Someone asked the usual the other day — How’s your book coming? — and for the first time in
this lifetime many many months their question didn’t make me feel bad. It didn’t make me feel bad or guilty or fat or slow or inept or, let’s face it, like a complete fraud, wholly incapable of writing the damned thing.
How the book coming?
It’s coming. I’m digging in. That’s the best I can do.
I feel a bit like that dog or pig who has to dig around in the dirt searching for truffles: it’s not the prettiest process, and sometimes I come up with absolutely nothing, but every now and then I get a word or a scene or a connecting of the dots that makes it worthwhile.
Here’s to digging.
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