Whoever said the first time was the hardest never tried to write a second book.
In a word, this entirely introspective, spastic, and enlightening experience may be summarized in three letters. ARG. Writing book two feels like I’m strapped down on a table enduring Chinese water torture that is percolating right through my forehead and out the back of my heart. (Forgive the Alias meets MacGyver cocktail of analogies. It’s been that kind of life.) So to handle the internal angst being stirred up by the creative processes, I’m behaving wisely and healthily. In other words, I’m deepening my appreciation for Jack Daniels, inhaling the culturally diverse brilliance of Zora Neale Hurston and Julia Alvarez, and leveraging my Grey’s Anatomy season finale angst with massive doses of How I Met Your Mother. And billing. Lots of billing.
So I apologize for the lack of regular blogging. More shall be forthcoming. As soon as the pain stops.
