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March 18, 2005: What Fresh Hell Is This?

I’m no Dorothy Parker, but I’ve definitely found myself contemplating her question many times myself. Right now, I’ve got about a zillion things to do, a lot of it writing-related, but not necessarily writing. You know, the writing that might be the start of my career sometime in the next decade.

Repeat after me: stress is my friend, stress is my friend.

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My website has finally launched - www.meganframpton.com, and I’ll be adding content in the next few weeks. It’s spare right now, but is a good reflection of the kind of person I am, so I am pretty happy with it. I’ve started a writer’s diary there, too.

My agent has the first three chapters and synopsis of my Mommy Lit book, and I am waiting (on pins and needles) for her comments. In the time we’ve been working together, I’ve found her feedback to be dead-on, and I know if she has a criticism of anything, she’s most likely right. Meanwhile, I’ve returned to the Regency historical, although I’ve been sorta stumped about where to go in the story from where I left off about a month ago. So I’ve written maybe 200 words in the past week. Not good.

Other writing includes editing these journals down for inclusion in my local chapter’s newsletter (RWA-NYC) and writing the President’s Message for the Beau Monde, the writing chapter of which I am, duh, President.

And then there are the copy edits. The five-pound package lurking menacingly in the corner of the room waiting for my attention. Problem is, the edits are intimidating. I can’t figure out why. If I could, I could probably analyze the situation, resolve my angst, pick up a red pen and start working. But I haven’t figured out why. Why informs so much of my life: why am I doing this? Why can’t I do this better? Why am I not happy? Why am I happy? The edits are due March 18th, so I’d better figure out the why pretty soon and stop wringing my hands about it.

And then there’s life. Luckily, my local friends are very accommodating of my schedule, and understand there are only so many hours in the day for me to shepherd the offspring to and from school, keep a partially tidy apartment at least partially tidy, watch Deadwood, and refine my cooking skills (I’m learning how to cook Indian -- I am a big fan of garam masala). My husband is just as busy, although has fewer chores (ahem.), so he understands when I haul out the laptop and start pecking away. But - stop me if this is breaking news to you - there are only so many hours in the day. At least I am never bored.

But why is life so incredibly busy? And, probably more importantly, when will it stop? I want to write, I want to have fun with my son, I want to work out, and I want not to wince when I walk through the Most Cluttered Apartment in Brooklyn. I just do not know how writers with full-time jobs do it.

Repeat after me: stress is my friend, stress is my friend.

Or, as I mentioned in a previous column, that which does not kill me makes me stronger.

Thanks for reading,

 

-- Megan

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