Writing. Writing. Writing.
If God gives me another twenty or thirty or fifty years of life, I'll look back at this summer and remember.
I know that.
I'm working on something contracted, feeling good about it.
I'm also working on something that's not contracted. I don't have a clue what to think about it.
I'm nearing completion of the latter. It's been a beast, and it's taken quite a few chunks of me.
People who don't write or don't create won't get it, and that's fine. I don't get it myself.
It's been hard going and I knew it would be.
Would love to share what it is and when it will see light of day, but I don't know. I really don't.
All I know is that I've tried to write the absolute scariest thing I could imagine. I'll say this. More than violent or spooky or startling, this story is oppressive. For lots of reasons. I think it drags me down into some dark well every time I start writing it.
Maybe that will be a good sign and maybe it will mean it needs to stay in my closet forever. I don't know.
August is my month for completion. There's light at the end of the tunnel.
I look forward to sharing more about these projects and future ones in the days ahead. It's only August 4th. Ouch. I still have a ways to go. But I was the one who got behind this wheel. I just look forward to getting out of the car and stretching and knowing I made it back home in one piece.