Thursday, October 24, 2013

New Novels, Old Dogs, and Taking the Rest of the Week Off

Recently I read a list--most likely on Facebook, so who knows if it's true--but, on the other hand, this, which I found on Facebook, is both true and fascinating--anyway, I read a list of the 10 happiest jobs.  Number ten was Operating Engineer, because you got to "play with giant toys like bulldozers." 

Number Four was Writer.  The list said, "For most authors, the pay is ridiculously low or non-existant, but the autonomy of writing down the contents of your own mind apparently leads to happiness."

Oh yeah, baby.

My "England book" is, to all intents, done.  I'm very happy with this draft, my editor likes my improved ending, and all is well.  We'll have to run it through spell-check, and the grammar police known as Copyeditors, who've saved me from my own ignorance repeatedly.  But that's all nothing.  The real work is done.

Which is so cool, for more reasons than one.  Like, I'll get the second half of my advance.  Always good.  I'll get a real publication date.  Fun.  But also, I can start writing something new.  Yesterday I cleaned off a section of my desk and found a rough draft of a book on Egyptian obelisks.  It doesn't stink nearly as much as I expected.  I'll certainly clean that up in the next week or so, and send it off to Be Considered.  I'll start the true research for my Egypt Novel, too.  And, on the novel writing front, I've planned a sequel to the "England book," my first true sequel ever.  One of the ways I know I'm really done with the first book is that the characters are rushing all over each other trying to tell me how to start the second.  (It's not schizophenia, it's creativity.)  But I've decided not to let them out until Monday.  They can squabble among themselves until somebody wins and I know where to start the story.

Meanwhile, my son is asleep upstairs, though he promised, last night, to set his alarm for 9:45.  His old dog is sleeping curled up on the sweatshirt my son left on the couch last night.  We wondered how the dog would react when he saw my son again--but he was so sound asleep that he only blinked in drowsy wonderment, his ears at half-mast.  Then he curled up on my son's stomach; when I tried to pick him up he went completely boneless in protest, like a recalcitrant toddler.  As he's grown ever older and more senile, the dog has reached a very peaceful state.  He's lost all his anxiety.

Kind of like me.