Last day of July. Summer already beginning to wane. Days are still hot, but the nights are cooler again in this high desert country of southwest Idaho. I can hear that man’s voice from the soap opera saying, “Like sand through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives.” That’s how time seems to slip away from me.
Being a novelist is an interesting condition. Novelists spend a great deal of our time in secret worlds that exist only in our minds. We have conversations (sometimes audible ones) with people no one else knows or can see. We worry about our characters while at the same time dreaming up the worst things we can do to them.
I love storytelling. I love being a writer who can say she has written at the end of any given day. I love finishing a book. I love talking about being a writer. The writing, however, can sometimes be so hard. Why is that?
So now I am off to make things hard for Jakob and Karola.
-rlh-
8:08 a.m. – 2002-07-31
