Too Many Books

"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 ...

It's four in the afternoon, and I am still in my pajamas. My hair is a mess. I haven't eaten breakfast. Or lunch. I just got up off the couch to let my dog (Carson) back inside. I feel a little lightheaded. So far today I've indulged in guilty pleasures, catching up on missed episodes of America's Next Top Model and 90210. I'm gearing up to watch Oprah. Who can resist a good incest tell-all? I live in Kentucky, after all. Ew. I've spent the whole day writing, feverishly. I am emotionally drained, emptier than my coffee pot, which contained ten cups eight hours ago. My novel is coming along, but the story takes me into dark places. I feel like the victim in a horror movie, stupidly running up the stairs as the man with the machete chases her. Still, I don't feel sad, I don't feel scared. I feel a sense of craving for it all, an urgency to go to there. (30 Rock reference. Anyone?!) If writing is theraputic, it makes sense that I'm on the couc...