"blank stares at... blank pages... no easy way to say this..." I'm feeling all Sara Bareilles today. Actually, I am settling in to write, as the hubster is out of the house for the evening and I am left to my own quiet and focused devices. This entry will serve as a little warm-up exercise. My copy of Rolling Stone came in the mail a couple of days ago, and I spent a bit of time tonight on the toilet couch reading a few of the articles. This issue's bookshelf column featured a conversation with Nick Hornby . Jonathan Ringen wrapped it up by asking Hornby if he had any advice for "would-be novelists." Here is Hornby's reply: Anyone who says they're writing for themselves is full of shit. That's something that you hear writer's say a lot. I always wonder why their drafts happen to be 90,000 words long, because that's a really strange, random length for a book, but it happens to be the length of most books. You know what I ...
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