I remember, vaguely, The Time Before I Wrote For A Living.
I worked a Corporate America job I loathed and the only thing that was my salvation after work – aside from a few well-made Manhattans – was writing. That, and the dream of what I want(ed) my novel to be.
I’d write and write for hours on end, often until the sun came up.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
Night after night.
Word after word.
Sentence after sentence.
Page after page.
Then I became a journalist, and my creativity – pretty much all of it – went to my day job.
I’m in no way complaining – I know how lucky I am to not only be able to write for a living, but also write about some pretty incredible people.
But as my career has blossomed over the past few years, my novel, sadly, has not.
Yesterday my significant other had a highly creative day and hearing his excitement about his project, I couldn’t help but yearn for my own out-of-office creative blitz.
I got home today, sat down on my comfortable desk chair and opened my novel … I opened the novel that had not been modified since Dec. 3, 2008.
At long last, I’m ready to revisit my old friends and give them life again. If they’ll have me, that is …