Tonight, I hit 70,000 words on my latest manuscript. It still has a ways to go – two chapters and a conclusion, then it’s off to the publisher for edits – but, for whatever reason, this feels like a milestone worth noting. Could be the windows flung open, four bunnies and a robin playing Oonch Neech in the backyard. Could be the dusted-off Adirondack chairs, or the promise of a spring night under quilts, fireflies, Lyra. Could just be something in the air. Beginnings, I think.
I always said I wouldn’t write another book until I was old, or at least wise. But the question kept coming – How can you walk away from the Internet when it’s your living and your life? – and the answer kept coming – How can you not? – and it occurred to me that there must be 70,000 words between those two things.
Turns out there are.