I made a promise to myself to have my first self-pubbed book out already. My initial goal was November.
Didn’t happen. By November I had StarChild really, really close to done, but it wasn’t there. And the tricky bits were:
1. I initially was doing it for fun and to get something out… but I fell in love with it.
2. It’s supposed to be funny.
Funny is one of my strengths. I admire anyone who does it well (Have you met my blogmates at Fictionistas? Nistas can bring it. I have a tough couple of acts to follow.)
The past few weeks I have lost my funny. It HAS to be around here somewhere. I have my snark, my snap, and my sarcasm handy, but the light and joyous giggle and guffaw have fled. Part of it is being without my much-beloved, part of it has been not feeling well, but anyone who writes funny will know the feeling. Funny is hard. For serious. I think it may be the hardest thing to do, and believe me—I’ve had to write serious stuff over the years. Academic toady prose, dark reviews, you name it. Funny may come naturally, but it is also both stubborn and delicate.
Perhaps if I could find my funny again I would be less likely to kill people. Just sayin’. You haven’t see it, have you?