I’m working on my fifth book: Trash Out. I love writing books and I hate creating books.
The book is not so much problematic as it is encompassing, as it is overwhelming, as it is fantastic and terrifying. The book swallows me whole. Creating the book is like diving down to the murky depths of a whirl pool. Periodically I escape just long enough to grab a gulp of oxygen and then am sucked back down.
Some days the work is so intense that when I do finish for a moment, it’s as if I was spit out by a whale onto an unfamiliar shore. I blink and clear the kelp from my eyes gaze at my surroundings and wonder for seven minutes, where the hell I am.
This makes me cranky; all this sucking down and throwing up, especially when I begin to become accustom to curling up in the dark belly of the whale. I like living inside this singular world, even though it’s confining, even though it’s difficult and there is nothing more to eat than krill. Though I am frustrated and cranky inside the dark whale, it’s better than the frustration and crankiness I feel when abandoned again to the cold, bright outside world.
I must learn not to answer the phone when I’m working, no matter what name is tossed up onto caller ID.
I don’t speak well when I’ve just emerged from the whale.