Writing As a Social Acitivity

Or, why I am not writing. Took off for Chicago and Bouchercon. Huge big crime writers conference over a long labor day weekend. 5 days of being immersed talking about writing, meeting writers, schmooze, network, eat, drink, sit and look at the Chicago river. See rat run. Talk about writing. Read new books on plane.

Yesterday: meet with female writer's group. Eat, talk, talk about writing, listen to a presentation on action and suspense, eat, drive, talk, buy book, come home read paper, take a walk, finally, finally print out a query letter and the 30 pages the Bouchercon agent wanted to see.

Today: writer's group--talk about writing, read my piece, come home, eat leftover pizza, think about writing, think about reading, discover why character was not doing something he should be. Read blogs, read some more about writing. Write blog. Anything, anything, but actually sit down and god damn write the book. Arrrrrrgh! Eleven months, 108 pages. Let's see. That's 9.8181818181818181 pages per month. I just gotta suck it up and get off my duff. Tomorrow I have to work out. Wednesday is another writer's meeting. Saturday is the New England Book Sellers Association. My whole life is writing but I hardly ever write.

And now I have discovered that two other books already published have basically the same plot. Hit myself hard on side of head.

How did this happen?

Grapeshot