Okay, I should be happy. I did the last edits on my novel a week ago. Handed it off. Signed the contract. Mailed it off, even. (Mike, Dan: I want the pony). I’m in the phase I always preconceive of as dizzyingly free, when I can do anything, write anything: it’s beautifully open. Instead, I’m feeling nauseated at not having some huge project already consuming me and I’m desperate to get into the next novel when I promised myself that for six months I’d write things that were short. Like haikus. Here’s one:
I finished my novel. Now
is the time to write
short things. Ah, fuck it.
While not writing my next epic project, I decided to update the website with a new picture of all the books I mean to read, the ones that have piled up beside the bed like shale. And within twenty minutes of taking the picture some force dragged me out to People’s Coop Bookstore to buy yet another book: Luanne Armstrong’s The Bone House. I’m feeling pretty apocalyptic these days.