There are days when all I want to do is ponder life-altering, earth-shaking questions like: why is the second season of Twin Peaks so nauseatingly awful? There are days when I want to take my daughter to the petting zoo, put quarters in the dispenser and help her hand-feed the scraggly sheep of Central Park. There are days when I want to spend four hours baking a casserole for my husband and the rest of the day reading Bradbury and the Bible.

In short, there are days when I really, really don’t want to write.

Hence my long absence.

I spent the last month burning through seven seasons of Buffy: the Vampire Slayer (also Twin Peaks), reconnecting with friends, and toying around with the idea of establishing a life once again. It was a glorious month.

Now, I’m back at the computer with a simple task: delete at least another five thousand words from my latest draft. In case your sarcasm detectors are malfunctioning, it’s not that simple and not that enjoyable. Motivation for completing this work has up and left like a dead-beat dad. In the words of Ke$ha, “You can imagine the immensity of the fuck I’m not giving.” I don’t care if I ever finish editing this beast. Don’t care if it goes into print. I could burn my computer right now, except that would interfere with me finishing the unfortunately long last season of Twin Peaks.

You know, the characters are still compelling.

I’m actually at peace with this lack of concern. Growing up I entertained all kinds of grandiose fantasies about the places my talent would take me. Talk shows, writing awards, book tours, you know. Still flush with embarrassment when admitting it out loud.

Those idle dreams no longer hold meaning. They’re not my reward for being a good girl. I’m living the life I want, creating a family, enjoying the trials, the first words, the first ballet slippers and first days at school. I’m figuring out how to be a half-decent wife. These things are so awesome that I am finally aware that publishing a book would have minimal, if any, impact on my life. There would still be kids to potty train, casseroles to make, and wonderful people to catch up.

Hence the lack of concern.

The only thing propelling me onward right now is divine prompting. I am pretty damn sure I am meant to be writing a book. This book. I have to option to quit at any point and have considered it seriously more than once. But my entire life I went crazy seeking the meaning of life. I tortured myself to discover my purpose in the larger scheme of things. Now that I have the answer stapled to my forehead, I’m going to what, exactly? Break all the mirrors and trash the book?

Eh, I don’t think so. I’m going to finish the damn thing.


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