I mean deep. Because down at the sub level, the one protected from the elements and cushioned by adipose tissue (yes, fat), that’s where the magic happens.
Okay, enough going off on a tangent. For those editors or agents reading this—no, I don’t go off on tangents in my novels. I leave indulgent tangents for my blog where I’m pretty sure no one is paying close enough attention, unless my 52 Twitter followers happen to fall upon my blog due to some quantum time warp miracle.
Back to the provocative question above. Why do we, aspiring authors, write? Especially when we have day jobs that eat up 75% of our waking hours? When we cringe yet smile and say “just about done” when asked by our friends about how the book is progressing. Has it really been six months? Or, there are those we love who simply stop asking…I know…awkward.
And finally, why do we write when we know there is a direct correlation between the thickness of our manuscript and the growing size of our posterior?
I don’t know. What I do know is even the thought of stopping makes me gasp for air like a dying woman on her last breath. Scares me to death. Scares me enough to keep my fingers on the keyboard and my posterior on the seat. Scares me enough to know that giving up on my lifelong dream is tantamount to giving up on who I am. And that’s just not going to happen. Not today.