When I started writing for the Gloss, I told myself I would take some time off from writing fiction to focus on 'building a platform' (is that not the WORST phrase ever? Ick.). I gave my permission to silence the guilty voices in my head that scream 'but what about your art?!' whenever I am trying to do something productive like paid freelance work or catching up the Real Housewives, so long as I was diligently keeping up with these other writing projects. But lately the muses have been calling. And I've been letting them go to voicemail.
A new novel comes around to me at once every couple of years, the way a new love does just when you start to think one might not. I think every novelist is different this way; some appear to have an endless stream of books coming out of them (Joyce Carol Oates) and some seem to either not have so many or choose them that much more carefully (Jeffrey Eugenides). And mine hit every couple of years. So along they come: new characters clogging up my neural pathways; saying 'forget the real world, come back over here where you belong'. And truth be told, I want to. I miss my parallel universe.
And yet. I can't help but think of the ones that came before. The foolish one I was involved with in college, the heady one from my New York days that I almost went the distance with, the third still in limbo. Do I really need to write another novel right now? Well...yes. I do.
Just as no single girl worth her salt would give up looking for love after a couple of bad relationships, neither can I.
I'll pick up the phone next time, I promise.
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