It's amazing how writing a novel can get in the way of more important activities, like blogging.
I am hurrying towards the goal of finishing the revisions on book #2 with some combination of exhaustion and lust. Lusting for it to be over, that is. Lusting to see the thing done. There is some point, in the process of novel writing, when you begin to worry that the book will forever be incomplete. I start dreaming about the last sentence. I see it in my mind's eye. I charge towards it with utter hunger.
The end is very satisfying. Quite unlike the end of reading a novel. I always feel a touch lonely when I finish a good book. I just re-read LADDER OF YEARS by Anne Tyler. I read it so many years ago that I couldn't remember the end. I read it quickly, taking it up whenever I had it a minute. It was even better the second time. I've also recently finished off SHOPOHOLIC AND BABY, which is like a box of chocolates. I decided to bring out some of my old, favorite feminist literature the other day as well, looking into SEX AND DESTINY by Germaine Greer. I adore that woman. The book's outdated now, but fascinating, and reading it reminded me that once upon a time I did things like study and write academically. Blogging couldn't be further from that. In the first place, I'm never required to write complete sentences. Cool.
In between all that reading, I really am trying to finish a book. But it's amazing how many things can get in the way of novel writing.