So, I’ve made a somewhat scary decision this month. Okay, a totally terrifying decision. I will not write short fiction. I will not write poetry. I will not write (very many) blog or Facebook posts.

What then, you ask in trepidation and fear and perhaps a little excitement, WILL I write? I will write only my novel. For a whole month. This isn’t like NANOWRIMO — I don’t expect to finish the thing and even for NANO, I always wrote short fiction as well. It’s my fall-back. My safety net. Writing only the novel is, to me, like putting all my eggs in one very flimsy basket. I’m afraid. Big time. Like really big, like all caps, sixty-point font big.

Whatever. I’m making out with my fear right now, kissing it on the mouth, warming it up. Getting it ready for me. Because Fear and I are going to get close this month. Like, really, really close. Beyond best friends close. I’m going to take it back to my place and strip it naked and lick all its salty places and beg it to enter me and sit with it there, buried in my soft skin and hollow spots. There will be no afterglow, no “call you tomorrow,” no numbers left by the bed.

Fear is moving in with me. We’re going to eat breakfast together, tumble our bodies wet beneath the hot spray of the shower, fight over laundry and dirty dishes. We’re going to sprawl on the couch, getting comfortable. We’re going to have a baby, this thing called Novel. And together, we’re going to raise it right, up off the page until it lives and breathes and walks and cries and says something smart and brilliant. Until it tells a story that holds you spellbound.

Kiss kiss bang bang, s.

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