The urge to work on my romance novel, rather than se, is getting stronger. So far, like almost any heroine, I am resisting, but my resolve is weakening.

Aisircul, my hero, is starting to take shape. So far, so good, but in my mind’s eye, his hair is black, which seems to be the standard for romance novel men. I would rather he have a different color. For one thing, given who he is, black seems a little…cliched.



That number represents four years of work on small exorcisms.

It’s silly how frustrating that is, but I do find it a bit maddening that after FOUR YEARS, during which time I have started a new career, moved, and had a third child (not in that order, mind you), I have written an average of only 10,716 words A YEAR. To draw a ridiculous comparison, Stephen King probably wrote that much before breakfast today.

And now, of course, my brain wants a break. “I want to go play with happier people!” it tells me. “Let’s work on something else!”

“No!” I tell myself. “I need to get this project done first! If I start working on something else, I might not want to return to this.”

Besides, small exorcisms, even with its grim passages, touches on a few important themes, namely letting go of the past and learning to forgive. And I’d hate to have spent this much time on this project only to let it join my figurative pile of unfinished projects.

But seriously? Four years and not even 43,000 words? Oy.