I’m Being Mature

Being mature sucks.

I’m being mature and Regan Black, my critique partner, is happy with the book she’s writing. The likelihood of either of these things happening, let alone at the same time, is unheard of.

Regan’s about 4,000 words from the end of the book. For those of you who don’t write, this is when you hate the book. You’re tired of the plot, the characters, everything. You just want it done. The characters have been yammering in your head for months. You’re talking to them more than to your family. Don’t believe me? Snarky Daughter keeps catching me having conversations with my characters.

You’d think being almost done would make you happy. I mean, the voices are about to leave you. But you’re going to miss these people, because even though they’re just characters, you’ve spent a lot of time hanging out with them. And they’re a lot easier to control than family and friends. Well, maybe not Regan’s characters since hers are always running around killing people, or they have people chasing and trying to kill them while they’re falling in love.

So Regan likes her book, which means I have some good reading coming. Once she’s done. This is not one of the things I’m being mature about. I want the book. Now.

I am being mature and business-like about the business of writing. I mean, I want to be in bed right now, but instead I’m doing this blog. Like I said I would. Aside of not always knowing what I’m going to write about, I like doing it.

Yeah, I know, where was I last night? Well, technically I wrote half this blog. But I have seven words for you: 3 hours of Linux training. Chiropractor. Rum. You do that math.

But that’s not what I’m really being mature about. I’m never mature about chronic back pain. You know when a friend is having a problem and they don’t want to talk about it and you say, “I’m here when you want to talk. No pressure,” and what you really mean is WTF? And all you want to do is shake them and check in until they finally tell you what the heck is going on?

Yeah. I’m ignoring that urge. Which is kind of like trying to ignore a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies when you’re on a diet. One of the reasons I’m a good writer is that I’m curious, and I ask everybody questions. I interviewed my mom’s Hospice nurse. While mom was asleep in the bed. I interview my hairdresser, cab drivers, pretty much anyone I cross paths with. So why would my friends be off the hook?

In this case, because in a moment of weakness I promised I’d leave it alone. But leaving it alone is killing me. No lie, I have to re-read the email I sent pretty much daily to remind myself that I am being mature. This is not my business, not my problem. But I hate it when friends have to carry a burden by themselves.

Especially when there is obviously a story there. Waiting to be told. It’s like reading the opening chapters of a murder mystery. The body’s lying there. You turn the page to start the next chapter, and…there’s no next chapter.

I am not a patient woman. I want the next chapter.

Like I said, being mature sucks. Guess I’ll have to take this time while I’m waiting to write another chapter in my book.

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