I've lost track of how many times I've tried to write a novel, and yet despite all the false starts I keep trying. I keep starting again, failing again, filing these unfinished drafts away in a black hole (also known as the "working" folder on my computer), then waiting for the next spark to come along. There is always a new spark. That part never fails me.
It makes me cringe to say that it feels different this time, because I'm pretty sure I say that every time, and therefore the declaration has become meaningless. So I'll just say this: the last two weeks have been good. I have written every single day — a small miracle — and the result of that is one yellow legal pad, every page filled from top to bottom.
So now what? On to the next yellow legal pad. In fact, it is sitting here on my desk as I write this. My only hope is that two weeks from now these new pages will be filled up, and that the spark will still be just as bright. I know the odds are not in my favor, but I also know one of these times it will last. It just has to.
