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Sixteen at 16. Love Is 1989
A musical musing to cover a big year.
No attribution required
I’ve been on a tear.
Over the last couple of weeks, I have doubled down on my efforts to forge and force something sustainable to break over the horizon with my writing. It’s been head up and fingers pounding down, sending out submissions to literary magazines, chasing freelance writing gigs, and pitching my Hungarian paprika heart out. The result is that I’m averaging about 5000 words a day.
I also pulled up my big boy pants, dusted off the folder holding my “big” novel- The one I wanted to get right; The one that will burn across the NY Times Bestseller list hotter than Fifty Shades of Grey and pass the immortal streak of Percy Jackson and the Olympians.
That opus has been sitting dormant at some 47K words, which I estimate at being one-quarter of the way to completion.
So, how does that relate to this musical ride down glory day lane? Two words. One name.
Combs penned this piece about it being high time to put up or shut up. His smack across my sensibility? If you have a novel, work-in-progress, then get to it.
Everything else, one way or another, is an excuse: a roadblock and a diversion. So stop being a coward, discard…
