It's been literally months since I wrote anything longer than a comment or two on my students' essays. I had a bit of spare time while my students wrote practice AP essays, so I looked at my blog. It's been since July. I pulled up my latest work-in-progress the other day. It's been about the same length of time since I wrote a word on it. So I wonder to myself if I'm actually a writer if I seem never to write anymore. Odd that, after all this time, I'm back to the same question with which I started this blog. I guess I can't convince myself that I'm a writer. I just have to try to write and not let definitions define me, if that makes any sense whatsoever. Since I have a sneaking suspicion I'm the only person who ever reads this, I guess it only matters if it makes sense to me. And it does.
I'm seriously considering rewriting the last chapter of my first book before sending out any queries. I feel like I missed an opportunity. There are two dream sequences earlier in the story and I don't know why it never occurred to me that the time the hero is in a coma from gunshot wounds would be an appropriate time to add a third. Three is a better number than two in almost all circumstances, and it seems like a good round number here. I could tie the other two into it and expose another layer of Harry's fragility. So it's decided. Another dream it is.
As I mentioned, I pulled up my new book. I'm about 10,000 words in and, despite the fact that it has lain fallow for two months, I'm excited to pick the story back up. Is it grievously egotistical to laugh at one's own jokes and feel that one's writing is good? I hope not. I hadn't believed I was a good writer (or even a half-decent one) until recently, so I hope that enjoying it is the better alternative to self-doubt.
I hope someone is reading this. I'm not sure why. I guess it would just be nice to know I'm not a lone unheard voice in the vast universe that is the interweb.