Reader, Writer, Merciless Reviewer and Incurable Romantic
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In amongst everything else, I put together my tax returns the past couple of days. There weren't any surprises, because I've kept my bookkeeping up to date. I knew my liability was going to be modest, with no panic at the last minute. All I have left to do is make copies for my files, then seal the forms and check in an envelope to drop in the mail tomorrow.
My studio is still a complete and total disaster, but I did get some time on the rock saw, and slightly diminished the inventory. (We're talkin' a dozen or two rocks out of thousands, so it's not a whole lot.) The slices from Friday and Saturday are cleaned up and the first batch is in the tumbler. More will be started in the next few days. If the weather cooperates, I may even get more time on the saw later this week. This will be a good thing.
Depending on how many I end up with, the stones will basically take most of the summer to process. I already have lots of other stones to work on over the next six months before the 2018-19 show season, so that will keep me busy building inventory.
Having finished my taxes, I have a really clear picture of my 2017 income -- as well as 2016 -- vis a vis both the jewelry and art shows on one hand, and my writing on the other hand. Bottom line is I need to write more.
Bottom line really is I want to write more.
I never seem to have time to read, let alone write. When I read, I write. I think I've written that more than once in the past, but it's true. It's like a priming of the pump or something. But the past several months especially, I haven't been able to gather sufficient reading time. All those books on my "currently reading" wall? For the most part, I'm still currently reading them. I just can't find the time to finish . . . anything.
That has to stop. And it has to stop now.
The Secrets of White Apple Tree Farm is currently at 43,025 words. I have more in hand-written scribblings that I need to transcribe, but I have no idea at all how much is there. There have been many nights when I've lain in bed and thought through some of the the plot lines, but can't find the time to write them down. Are they forgotten? No, they're cemented in my imagination, waiting for time/energy/discipline.
I want to write this book. I want to write this book NOW.