It’s been another crazy week in a summer full of them—which is good news for my bank account, but bad news for my middle grade novel. I’ve been busy with teaching and manuscript critiques, and this week I had a book deadline Tuesday, with two more next week—and I just got the specs three days ago. Yikes! [Lest I mislead you into thinking that I can leap tall buildings in a single bound, these are very short books for second and third graders that I am doing on a work-for-hire basis for an educational publisher.]
I like being busy, but I had hoped to have my usually lazy summer so I could finish up my middle grade novel. No such luck. It doesn’t help that although I can write non-fiction any time, anywhere, and do it in a flash, when it comes to fiction, I am glacially slow. I am beginning to feel a little desperate, not only about ever finding time to do this, but also about ever finding the peace and quiet I need to concentrate.
Then I saw this little guy on my walk yesterday morning, and I remembered—in writing, speed doesn’t count. What matters is that you keep adding to your story, one line, one word, even one syllable at a time.