Apologies if this post comes off a little disjointed. I need to rant and ramble for a bit. As many of you know, I’m writing my first book. I’ve written articles, blogged for pay and contributed chapters to others’ anthologies. Now, finally, I’m working on my own baby. The timing isn’t coincidental, and I’ll tell you more about that eventually.
For now, the book is coming along nicely. And, at the moment, only have a one frustration. I lack patience. By way of an example — and as I’ve mentioned before — on more than one occasion I’ve sat in taxis cussin’ and swearin’. “Damn it,” I sigh as I notice cars in traffic are moving slower than people footing it on the sidewalk. “This is taking too long. Just let me out here and I’ll walk the rest of the way!!!” I pay my fare and get out. After speedwalking one or two blocks, I hail another cab because I feel like the traffic is moving faster than I am. Yes. I’m impatient, neurotic and insensible. I know. I’m working on it.
Anyway, so, it’s hard for me to forgo additional article-writing opportunities (and immediate cash!) for the next SIX MONTHS while I spend time finishing up the book. I want it … everything, actually … now. I try to rush through finishing my chapters. I give pages to friends to gather their opinions on stuff before I’ve even proof read it myself. I start working on a new pieces before I’ve finished the previous ones. And, so on and so on. “Slow down,” I tell myself. I start up again — this time working at a reduced pace. It’s coming along. Slowly. That drives me batshit crazy, but I hope the end product will be better because of it. Whatever. I feel guilty and petty when I complain. I love writing, and I’m just incredibly grateful that I get to do it & people appreciate my work. So, enough about that.
