my work in progress

"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 mean? The act of writing a novel already knows and demands a readership. To forget about your readers is a mistake.

Well, that's my food for thought. As I inch further into my novel attempt, it is with a readership in mind, not just a selfish need to move a story from the depths of my insides, to categorize and box pain into chapters or supporting characters, nor to carve a wordy path to forgiveness. It isn't just for me. It's for you and you and you.