Okay, real talk, ya’ll. I always figured that once you write a novel, subsequent novels would just pour out of you like lava. I thought you would just automatically know what to do, how to draw real, lived-in worlds and compelling characters and killer dialogue. Not so. Last night I stared down my empty screen like I had never written a story of any length before. The way I see it, I’ve got a few choices: hang out on Twitter for an inordinate amount of time and get absolutely nothing done or put my fingertips to the keys and make words happen so the screen isn’t so . . . white and scary-looking. I like the latter, so I’m going to do that today and bang out as much as I can with fever, no worrying about whether it’s good (it won’t be). It’s the only way. Yay to resolve!
