I've started my writing in earnest. I seem to inhabit the minds of characters whenever I have a moment to myself. I have been doing that for awhile, but at least now I'm focused on putting it on paper and getting them out of my head.
I have read about actors and actresses "becoming" their character during a movie shoot. While I hesitate to compare myself to an accomplished actor, I'm guessing what I'm doing is something like that. Here's hoping I keep the distinction between fiction and my life completely intact. Or, if someone does bridge the gap, here's hoping it's not the drug-abusing prostitute who makes the leap. Although I could always use some spare pocket change. [Kidding. There is no drug-abusing prostitute in the current line-up.]
I don't know if I have it in me to write a book. Change that. I know I have it in me to write one. I don't know if I have it in me to write a good book, much less one that is worthy of publishing. [Honestly, though, how many of us read crappy books that make us wonder, "How in God's name did that manage to be published?"] I don't know if I'll ever finish it before losing interest or hope or whatever that's currently motivating me.
What I do know is that I must have severely low expectations. How do I know this? Last night, I dreamt about several bizarre Harlequin romance-style "books." The story lines were pitifully bad. And all were offered up by me for publication. And all were turned down, rightfully so.
For the record, I am not writing a romance novel. I know many wonderful women love those types of books. More power to you, ladies! Me? Blech. Yet that is apparently the caliber of my dreams.
Dang, I wish I could go back to not ever remembering my dreams.
[Photo courtesy Burchard Galleries.]