So I’m writing a non-fiction collection of essays about writing and the writing life. I know, I know. There’s already a ton of books on writing and who the hell do I think I am, busting in to write another?
Well, I don’t really have an answer for either of those questions, really. I just woke up about a month ago, considered the vacuum that existed after finishing my newest project, and decided to see if I could come up with enough stuff to say and meditate upon to put a book together.
Turns out, I have a lot I guess. The words have been pouring out of me and the collection is already closing in on a hundred pages. It’s strange, pretending I’m sort of writing expert giving writing advice and reporting back from the front, but it’s also been liberating, too, getting the process and sweat and time spent off my chest and relating my experiences during the composition, revision, and (a couple times) getting my work published. I’m finding my writing book prose voice to be a slightly more erudite version of the Blogagaard voice I’ve been using all along since I started blogging in 2005 and I’ve been reveling in the potential uses of footnotes (I get it now, DFW! They’re fun!).
We’ll see where this road leads and if it ever sees the light of day but I’m already glad I started the project, if only for the pleasure I’ve had writing it.
Oh God what hath I wrought?