It’s the journey, not the destination—I keep reminding myself. And it’s a long journey, or at least I’m making it one. It was about a year ago that I decided to re-write the novel that I’d already written seven times. I was going back to scratch. I’d hoped it would take me three months, but now I’m hoping I’ll be done before the end of this year.
In that year, I got wrapped up in a bit too much volunteer work, over-extending myself. Of course, the writing got squeezed, but I still wrote something almost every day, just not always my novel. That’s been sporadic, at best. (I’ve been using Pacemaker so I now have a visual graph of my bad writing habits.) Read more
It was a balmy twenty seven degrees centigrade in late October in Venice, Italy; birthplace of Casanova and often referred to as the most beautiful and romantic city in the world. I was lounging in a café, sipping cappuccino and watching the world go by. Gondolas and river taxis glided past and the canal water gently lapped at the edge of the patio, a scant three feet away. Tourists stopped to pose for photos on the iconic Rialto Bridge.
