This past weekend was an archetypal summerific one, full of pools and water parks, shaved ice the color of crayons, midnight rides with wind in the air. I submerged myself in ice-cold water and memories of my first major crush on a lifeguard at the local pool, who looked like a teenaged Lorenzo Lamas from “Falcon Crest.” Oh, the glory of the 80s, indeed. Even the music was similar, the water park blasting Duran Duran at regular intervals as we waited in line to ride crazily convoluted water slides that encapsulated fear and thrill in one twisting ride.
The book is being written, and re-written, and then written again. Sometimes I wonder if it will ever stop writing itself. Just as the end is in sight, gasp, sigh, there’s something new to be reworked. In this case, the beginning, always the beginning, right? It’s been almost a year since I seriously started writing this baby. And it is a baby, kicking and screaming and demanding its own self in the world. Naturally realizations happen just when I think it is all done. I’m starting to think this is my own last-bit-before-the-third-act, that acceleration of plot and climax. I hope it is! Or is this just the writer’s version of stage fright?