My big new writing life feels like it's been carelessly washed then stuffed into a too-hot dryer. I have to squeeze into it now and it looks like hell. Tight with a muffin top. Indecently short.
I've had ideas. My index card notebook is riddled with one-liners. I come home, set my satchel on my desk and slide the notebook from its pocket while my laptop purrs to life. I check my email. And then I write long responses to my attorneys. I open my
Big D. file and pull things out, checking facts and figures and dates. I rifle through my file cabinet, and before I know it there are a half-dozen folders on the floor. The attorneys want account numbers, information about checks I've written, another list of all my assets. How much I spend....and how much I make. How much I make?? It's called alimony, remember? We went to court
together to get it. But really, it's okay if you forgot. It was 3 years and 4 months ago. A long time, yes?
Imagine all this work put into my novel, selling my memoir manuscript, or a new short story.
But wait. I've exchanged hundreds and hundreds of emails with my attorneys. There's got to be a book in that, right?
