Blah Blah Writing

There's a reason I haven't been blogging much lately. It's also the reason why I can't sleep at night, waking up in the wee hours with a cold sweat and fast-beating heart; it's why I can't speak to another human without muttering unintelligibly about fox hunts and clockwork, and it's the reason I don't do or think about anything anymore except this one thing. You probably already know -- it's this damn novel I'm writing. 

I always used to dream of getting so immersed in my writing that I became one of those irritable, unwashed, upsettingly eccentric people whose only drive in life was their art. I always wondered, "Why do I feel okay taking breaks from writing? Why aren't I obsessing over my characters 24/7 and waking up in the night, sobbing because I hate myself and everything I've ever written? Why can't I be one of those horrible anti-social people who does nothing but babble about their stupid novel that nobody cares about?" It sounded so exciting, so bohemian, so cool. I'd never have guessed that I would actually become the smelly, unhinged writer that I dreamed about. But now I have! And it's everything I wanted and more! More self-loathing, lost sleep, and malnourishment, anyway. (For instance, today I'm eating a Mars Bar for dinner because I don't have the time or energy to boil water for pasta. I already made coffee; what more do you want from me?)

It's actually kind of stupid how much I enjoy doing nothing but eating terribly and staying up until the sun rises, writing and hating what I've written and then liking it again, and then writing some more. Making up worlds and characters and ball gowns and cheese-eating viscounts is like crack to me. It's like eating a stack of chocolate chip pancakes covered in whipped cream and strawberries without throwing up afterwards. It's like a hundred pug puppies, rolling all over me in a field of daisies. It's like Tom Hiddleston reading me a story every night before bed. It's pretty much the best. The only things that would make it better were if my room was fully catered, and if Greg were in the corner somewhere playing video games, so I could occasionally throw things at him or demand kisses. Even so, it's pretty great.

People have asked me about the novel itself, and I'm hesitant to talk about it in great detail, because it's my beautiful child and I don't want anyone on the internet to steal it. I've already talked about it on here, but in case you can't be bothered to scroll back and find that post (who has the energy?), here's the run-down: It's about a girl who plays the harp and lives in a fantasy land that's in a state of perpetual winter. There are clockwork things. There is a fox hunt in the snow. There is an anti-social duke who can't tie a cravat to save his soul. There are ball gowns. Tea. Hummingbirds! The end. 

Suffice it to say, I'm busy writing a piece of literary genius so if I don't update here very often THAT'S WHY. Busy living the dream and all that. I'll let you know when I'm the next Stephanie Meyer.