I finished my final manuscript for The Dirty Book Club in January 2017 ready for a break. After thirty-two novels and a grey-green complexion all I wanted to do was tend to my hair–the wanted and the unwanted–and re-enter society, tragic as it has become. At that point I could only imagine what life was like outside my head and I was so over imagining. I wanted reality. So much so that I spoke to a local shop owner about working at her boutique. Dressing living people instead of fictional characters seemed like a positive first step.
But my work on the Dirty Book Club was far from over. Proofs needed proofing. My dying social media sites needed defibrillators. Then they needed a new look. Then content. Gawd, the content. The book jacket art needed tweaking. A narrator for the audiobook needed approval. I met with movie producers, journalists, and a Facebook expert. I decided there just had to be a Dirty Book Club nail polish and a DBC key necklace so I met with Anya the polish expert and Gorjana the jewelry designer. I negotiated deals and sampled samples. There were giveaways, promotions, and sneak previews. I hand wrote thank you notes to everyone I came into contact with. And then hit the road for book tour. (More thank you notes.)
In a few months I went from a solitary burned out writer to the CEO, CFO, and WTF of what felt like a major corporation. Only instead of a staff run by knowledgable department heads it was just me. And just me was inundated. I was anxious, restless, irritated, and more fried than I was in January. But why? I was in the real world, dealing with all three dimensions, and getting out there. My goals had been met.
At the urging of my agent and my retirement account I sat down yesterday to the hum of my Doterra diffuser and banged out what may or may not be the first chapter of a new novel. No title. No outline. No solid plot. Just some blurry characters pitching tents in the wilderness of my mind. And you know what? I felt joyful again. Calm. Hopeful and giddy in that flirting-with-my-new-crush sort of way.
The lesson here? No clue. It’s more of an irony, I suppose. Or maybe a reminder that there’s no place like home.
Here we go again…