Time Flies

I like to tell myself that it’s been maybe a year since I’ve written in my blog, but then the date stamp on my most recent entry puts its heal onto my delusion and squishes it like a bug. It’s been four years. 

How is this even possible? How does time move so fast? And why does it move the fastest when you need it the most?

It’s not that I haven’t been writing. I have. Nowhere near as much as I should. But I have been writing. 

Is writing about how much you have not been writing still considered writing? I say yes. But of course that’s what I would say. 

So, here’s the thing ... all the mini projects I have been working on over the past few years have been positive things, but nothing like finishing a book. And that's just what I've done. I have finished a novella; one I’d been working on for years. Obviously I haven’t been working on it day and night for years, but the story has been with me for longer than I care to admit. Admitting how long ago I conceived the story would be breaking down a layer of denial about my procrastinative prowess that I'm not ready to do. 

So, now I have something tangible on which to focus. Making up words like procastinative can only keep a person going for so long. At some point, you need something you can sink your teeth into. Now it's time to start that whole process of polishing up my book, get it ready for publishing, designing a cover, finding an editor, finding a proofreader, deciding where to publish it, etc.

There will be news coming soon.  

A footnote I need to add: When I began this blog post, I hadn’t posted anything in four years. But between the time I began the post and when I finished it, I snuck in a little post that had been sitting in my draft pile for who knows how long. Seriously, when I make up a term like procrastinative prowess, I’m not messing around.