In September, it was primo patio weather at night when heat waves still wafted up from the asphalt and the air felt warmer than your skin. Life had assumed the position of a 1-mile radius around a quirky patch of Las Vegas Boulevard, and I'd gotten back to writing again. Beyond the micro blogs and back to my first book that stripped my soul to a raw beginning. I was living an adventure I wished I'd started years ago and had to relinquish the idea that anything should be different at the moment.
No timeframe existed for writing a book. I attended a scammy seminar once that gave us a 40-hour blueprint. Not to say I couldn't splash out something magical in that time . . . but why would I want to? It reminds me of the days when I used a time tracking software to monitor how long I spent on every little activity in the day. That, in and of itself, was a waste of time.
Yes, I want to finish my book. I want it to be fucking amazing. A huge success. Best-seller. Numero uno. I want my life to be transformed in the best of ways because of it.
The last thing I wanna do is rush through it like all my other desperate attempts at trying to make it. Creations I didn't appreciate in their making and liked even less in their unraveling. This book is different in so many ways, but one main way to rule them all. The love of it. The love of living it. Working it. Writing it. Letting it take shape in a timeframe all its own. If I'm gonna do it at all, I'm gonna do it like I want to.