Beginning a novel is really like being caught in a waking dream. I'm too far in to go back, but the road ahead of me seems littered with poisonous snakes and bugs the size of a Jupiter (plus, they hiss.) I have been whining and complaining to my husband who looks at me with great amusement and says, "Yep, You started a new novel. it's always like this." He also pointed out that when I am 3/4 of the way through a novel, I always say, "This is the end of my so called career."  So why can't I tell if what I am writing is good or not? Why can I look at student work and know instantly what needs to be fixed and why but when it comes to my own work, I struggle and struggle until there is blood on the page.

And yes, though I complain and obsess, I love it. I love all stages of it. If I couldn't write, I would go insane. I consider myself incredibly lucky to be able to live all these other lives, and I bless the day i walked out of my one job job and told them  that while I was physically able to do the work, i simply was not spiritually willing!  (This was a workplace where, when i got a rave in the NYT, a friend posted it up;, and the boss hauled me into his office TWICE to tell me not to tell anyone because everyone would assume I was simply thinking about my novel and not about work,a nd therefore all errors would be atrributed to me.  I was dumbfounded, but not as astonished as when I was yelled at for not going on the company picnic and choosing to stay home and write!)

Lucky Leavitt