Hmm. Similar to corwin's. Here goes...
Wifey (a.k.a Supervixen) said to me the last night while she was shredding nearly a year of old mail, "Are you ever going to write again?"
She's eerie that way, further convincing me that she is indeed a witch, reading the bare intentions of thought in my mind, the ones I try to hide even from myself.
The fact is, I have started again. I realize this time that it will be hard work. I will have to bear down and be consistent. Do not count on a daily ejaculation of prose. There are a cast of characters that have lived their lives in my head for the past eight years. They've spoken to me at length, some a bit more interesting, sharing a little more, than others. Then they've scared me by going away for long stretches without sending any updates.
Then the heroine of the story bluntly gave me some advice.
"Look," she said. "Quit all the Great American Novel bullshit. Just write the fucking story or we're outta here for good."
Then she stormed back in to her teepee. Or schoolbus.
Whatever. I haven't gotten that far.
Now the plan is to write it all down without a goal in mind. Write it on anything, anywhere. Do it every day. Finish it. Polish it. Done.
Then show it to Supervixen and answer, "Yes."