So Confident, and yet So Wrong
I can’t be the only one, the only human is frequently so confident and yet so wrong. There’s the whiteboard I was positive would keep me organized that’s propped unused at the corner of my desk. But at the time, I had to have it, or my world would spin into chaos. There’s the man I was so certain I could never live without. My, how a little distance and perspective has changed that particular notion. Or the Havarti and dill cheese I paired with the rosemary crackers thinking they’d be delightful. They were not. Too much. Every flourish needs a nice, quiet anchor. Even cheese and cracker pairings.
I could fill an entire post with my wrongness. Things I was certain would end me didn’t. Others I was positive I needed to flourish became a millstone around my neck.
I don’t like to be wrong. I like admitting it even less. Yet, for all of my aversion to it—and despite how adept I am at being wrong—the world marches on. And I begin to suspect that the only person who gives my wrongness more than a passing thought is me. Everyone else is too busy trying to avoid facing their own adeptness at wrong.
I suppose the bright side to all of this being wrong is it means I’ve tried. My ex-husband used to leave every single decision to me and then hold my missteps over my head. But I don’t think abstaining from life lessens our ability to be wrong. Choosing not to participate is a decision in and of itself.
I was also wrong when I thought I could treat my brain like a Pez dispenser and just keep popping new books out to meet the grueling pace writers are expected to keep these days. A friend mentioned that putting books on preorder worked for her; having a deadline kept her on task. It did the opposite for me. I’d find myself procrastinating until the deadline was perilously close and then panic-writing to meet it by the skin of my teeth.
To an extent, it worked. It was a good year for my books. But then came the book I truly wasn’t in the headspace to write. I put it on preorder thinking it would once again force me to buckle down because I’d promised readers a year ago that I’d write this sequel to Elusive Magic.
To an extent, it helped. I’ve made great progress on it and the entire rest of the story is mapped out. I believe it’ll be a good book when it’s done. But it’s not where my head or my heart are at the moment, and progress is painfully slow, no matter how much I try to force it.
So, because I’ve gotten so much better at admitting when I’m wrong, I’ve decided to cancel the preorder and take my punishment from Amazon. While this series isn’t as popular as the Nora Jones Mysteries, there were a few people with the book preordered who were looking forward to more of Josie’s story, and to them: I am very sorry to have let you down. I will get this written, but it’s going to be one chapter at a time, as I’m working on other stories.
On the flipside, I said at the end of Gator in the Gallery that it would be fall before another Nora Jones Mystery made its appearance. Wrong again, but in a good kind of way. I’m not promising a date just yet because I’ve found it puts a new kind of pressure on the writing process that sucks the joy right out of it but know that it’s due at my proofreader in less than a month, so… soon.
I’ve also putting off writing August’s spinoff series just a bit because there’s more research I want to do. I promise to write quickly and to do my best to publish at least six books a year (which is about six fewer than “they” tell us we’re supposed to write to be relevant), but I won’t do it at the expense of my books or my love of writing.
If I have my way, you’ll see three more Nora Jones books, the first August Ray novel, at least one more installment in the Lakeport series, and Everyday Magic will finally find its voice this year. But that all depends on how well life—and my brain—cooperate.
Wish me luck!
