chez Attebery/Warner. What was to be a day of tiling the bathroom has turned into Chris sleeping by my side mid-afternoon while I eke out an article for Edible and begin a business plan to launch Golden Apple Media this fall. Then there is THE BOOK.
I received a congratulatory email from my editor regarding the reception of my documentary film on Thacker Mountain Radio, which engendered in me fear rather than ecstasy. Always one to under-promise and over-deliver, I'm wondering how I will add another one hundred pages to what I've already written. How can I turn something feverishly academic into a cool read in less than three weeks?
There is hope. I've befriended the lovely Laurel Snyder through our mutual friend Lauren Cerand and I have to say it's a match made in heaven. To be a writer without a community is a suffocating thing. Despite Chris' genuine enthusiasm for my work - of which progress has been minimal - there is an understanding between writers that can not be grasped by those who don't wield the pen for a living. (I'll never forget the conversation I had with one writer who sneered at to the 23 year old version of me, "You don't want to be a writer, do you?") It was too late, the pen had already chosen me. Talking to Laurel the other night reminded me that I'm not the only one trying to make a go of this life.