Yesterday I went on a research trip with my son. It fell into the wonderful Mom-moment because (a) he’s excellent company (b) he volunteered to drive (c) his cellphone camera worked when the batteries on my aging Kodak died and (d) I was able to buy him pie.
Note to those of you without children: Moms really like feeding their kids. Doesn’t matter if we can’t put the spoon to their lips anymore. Buying them pie will do it for us. We feel complete–we have fed our child. Even if our boy is taller than us, and looks grown-up handsome with his v-neck sweater, and lean jeans, and sharp shoes.
Curse you, book 3. I can see your ending. I can see some scenes in techicolour detail. But smashing my way into the story’s narrative? It’s proving to be a tad frustrating. I’m not smashing, I’m scratching.
I write, I sigh and delete. If I knew how to to start the novel, the damn book would be half-done.
Who knew? This writing business is a lot harder than it looks.
But at least, there is pie.