For reasons too complicated and boring to explain, I am back at my sister-in-law’s, halfway home. I have cartoon comforter tucked around me on the couch, and a small dog (not my own, he is pouting at the other end of the couch because the other dog got the ball) curled up against my leg. The Triplet Tornado swept through and then went to school. DP went back to bed. Now it’s just me, whinging about my cold, and my manuscript.
I’m on the next-to-last section. I’m so wrapped up in this shit that I don’t even care about the election, even though it went badly in my state. I’m writing this post in hopes that the fire in my belly to get this done will ignite. I’m tired, but I’m almost done.
I have to write a synopsis of this fucker. Right now if I had to do it, I would write how the first three sections are a seamless, lyrical exploration of XX. The fourth section sticks out like a sore thumb, but if I could only get it into shape, it would be what sets my memoir apart from others. And the fifth section is a shameless attempt to wrap up the whole story with a bow.
Do you think they’ll go for it?
(For a much more coherent discussion of why writing is more important than other things, read this.)