Okay, to the topic at hand.
No one ever tells you, particularly when writing a non-fiction, that life isn't going to give you room just because you have a deadline.
I know, it's a bit of a no-brainer, but seriously, why did this not occur to me before?
In matter of
fact, it's as if life figures if you've got the moxie to be thinking you're good
enough to write some kind of how-to, instructional, or even (I'm sure) a fiction book, you're good enough to handle everything it's gonna throw
at you.
It's like life is thumbing it's nose at you and saying:
-Oh yeah, I don't care that you already work a full time job.
-Oh, and why don't I make it a little harder--throw in some surgery, mysterious infections, and maybe a looming future back surgery to boot.
-Why not? You can handle it. Right? Right.
Not to mention all the book issues we've had, illustration delay's, video delays, sheer overwhelmingness of producing such a monumental book as what we are trying to do.
Ah, but would I trade it if I could?
If you know me, you already know the answer to that. When have I ever said no?
Not often.
The alternative is too treacherous to contemplate. Look at it. If I were to not write, to not work my hardest at providing a truly groundbreaking book, to not allow my imagination it's free rein . . . well, quite frankly, I would probably go mad. All those voices in my head, with no outlet? It doesn't bear thinking. Just call the nuthouse and admit me immediately.
So call me crazy, I'm halfway there already.
I write for what little sanity I have left. Despite illness, roadblocks, and well, life.
