Four weeks. 13,500 words. 35 pages. Five chapters. And my dominant emotion? Bafflement. At how easy it feels.
I know enough by now to realize that initial creation is always the fun and easy part of writing. And I know that I am just beginning even that. Finishing will be work. Editing will no doubt suck, as editing always does. And selling it (should I get that far) will be Sisyphean.
But, nevertheless, I feel as if I am watching myself from a distance, thinking: wow, who knew she could do that?
Perhaps the root of my bafflement is that during the six years I spent writing my memoir it never occurred to me —never ever never once—that writing fiction might be easier than writing narrative non-fiction about my dead baby.
(Ahem, a friend responded. Yes, I would think it would be quite a bit easier.)
Who knows how this will all fall out in the end, but right now this is exactly the balm I needed to move forward as a human being and as a writer. And even if this is all it ever is, I’d like to offer up the teeniest and most sincere thank you to the heavens for that.