A few months ago, I began writing another novel. My first novel reprimands me daily from the wicker stool upon which she perches. She’s a strong piece (as first books go) with no purpose other than entertaining a reader. She’s not meant to change the world or make a statement about the mysteries of life. She evolved out of a dream, months of research, and commitment to completion. For years, the first draft collected dust in a box. I pulled the box open last summer and began the revising and editing process. I printed two copies of the new draft and handed one to a friend a couple of months ago. The other draft, sitting always within my peripheral vision, awaits input from another friend. If my dedication to my craft ruled my life, I’d make certain to deliver this copy sooner rather than later. But . . .
In the meantime, I’ve started my second novel. This one has more import and weight. I whipped out the first two chapters with relative ease. The setting, characters and conflict established themselves almost magically. They are good people facing a seemingly insurmountable crisis with grace and dignity. I know they will prevail—if I can ever get the time to write beyond Chapter Three! To write a chapter takes longer than the quick fifteen minute blog entries I throw together each day. To finish Chapter Three, I need an uninterrupted block of time. Eventually, I’ll have an evening or an entire weekend open. By that time, I’ll be so familiar with the plot and descriptions within this next chapter that putting the words to the page will be effortless. For now, I’m satisfied with writing in my head.
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Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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