I am about to start writing the YA novel due in September (though it may be extended to October 2). Anyway, the outline has been returned to me with notes, all of which seem doable, and I have a new document all open and ready. The title is typed in (one word; starts with a C). I know what the opening scene will be. And yet the page is blank. I know the entire arc of this chapter. And yet the page is blank. There is something at once exhilarating, and terrifying, about a blank page.
Still, I wish this could be my entire day job, cranking out these novels. (The other assignments, two of which are based on TV shows—don’t gag—not so much.) But, truly. Imagine being a freelance writer full-time. (First imagine not having student loans and credit cards to pay off.) But think of it: you spend your day writing. And you get paid for it. And you don’t have to go in to any office and wear suitable clothes. I’d do it, if I could manage to find enough assignments to keep me afloat. Retiring my red pencil would be an exhilarating moment in itself. I’d snap it in two and grind the lead into red dust with the heel of my shoe.
But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. The blank page of this new novel awaits. Here is what it says at the moment:
Good hook, huh?