A day in the life of a writer

Was up ear­ly and out of the house before eight and went to the school where I am read­ing my newest book. (Book # 1) As I read, I mark MS where I think I can do bet­ter. It’s grat­i­fy­ing when I get to the end of my twen­ty-five pages, and they plead for more. That’s when I sched­ule the next date.

I go home, and review what I just read, and make the adjust­ments I need.

Then I pop open the com­put­er screen and work on Book #2, revis­ing the first few chap­ters, try­ing to get the voice right, the sense of the sto­ry, so I can move for­ward. Now and again I check the editor’s notes to see if I am answer­ing the ques­tions posed, the sug­ges­tions offered.

In the after­noon I go off to inter­view some­one in the know about the sub­ject I plan for book #3. It’s extreme­ly com­plex, and makes me feel  I have wad­ed into a wide riv­er that’s swift and very deep. And I am try­ing to learn how to swim. But the peo­ple I’ve spo­ken to are very help­ful, like the notion of what I intend to do, and offer promis­es of more help and more con­tacts to interview.

Then I go home and review my notes, in part by telling my wife what I’ve learned. “Have you decid­ed how you are going to tell the sto­ry?” “I’m try­ing,” is the best I come up with.

I return a bit to Book #2.  

Tonight I think I’ll read some­one else’s book. It’s a lot eas­i­er than writ­ing #1 or #2 or #3.