Writers do not slave in garrets or penthouses, blocking out the world while they create from their own pain. Not for more than an hour at a time anyway. Most of us work like waiters, juggling drinks, appetizers, main courses, desserts, and bills from eight or nine tables, all the while filling glasses and clearing empty plates. And smiling.
I am currently dealing with a brilliant but unstable idea for a picture book (my man Kevin and I have a script and some pix and we’re ‘this’ close to pitching it), the copy edits for a (surprisingly) practical guide to writing due out next year, and audiences in Hamilton and BC who want to hear about the novel that’s out now.
And I am not a superstar. I’m a working stiff, the literary equivalent of a second-string winger going into corners after loose pucks. Which means that I have another job. I spend lots of time thinking and talking about other people’s writing while I’m not doing my own.
So – the point of this post -- there’s still not much to say about the Camp FUNdament story. Busy Amanda has worked out our publishing schedule. Mel and I have sharpened our pencils (what a dated reference! But ‘we’ve trimmed our nails’ gives an odd and misleading picture). We’ll have something one of these days. We’d better, or Scholastic will be mad!
Believe me, this is NOT a complaint. A bigger royalty statement wouldn’t change my day to day. I enjoy the chaos of the writing life. Hey, I was a waiter for most of a decade, and enjoyed the chaos of restaurant life too. I am getting paid to do something I’d do for nothing. I often wake up feeling like I’ve won some kind of lottery.
I’ll have more to say about Camp FUNdament soon. Promise. I’m just keeping it real here.