The good news is I started working on my new novel this week, the bad news is I neglected this blog. The internets were not completely Andrea-free as I did manage to get a column out to theGloss (along with a fabulous pic of me on a mechanical bull, natch) but I'd feel better about things if I were keeping with all of it. It's like having three great parties on the same night, I want to go to all of them damnit!
I told myself I'd give myself some time off from fiction to do some other writing but I can't stick to it. I like blogging and writing about my adventures for the Gloss and it's nice that a couple of hundred or occaionally a thousand people read what I put out there as opposed to my novels which remain in obscurity for the time-being. But it's not the same as writing fiction. I need to spend that time catering to my imagination or it starts messing with my personal life. I try to avoid pondering the masochistic question of whether I'd keep at it if I never got published. Besides, I already know the answer.
I get annoyed when people talk about 'needing' to write as though it's on par with breathing or eating or personal safety. I just think it smacks of privledge if that's your idea of a 'need'; like Paris Hilton saying 'Everything bad that could happen to a person has happened to me.' But it is a compulsion; it's one I could choose to deny I suppose but it will would still be there.
In the meantime I have to do work that you know, involves being paid. Where do you find the time? Under the couch? Over the rainbow?
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