I’m in the middle of edits of my first novel. And my poor brain is full.
It’s weird to live in France and have characters from East Texas talk to me. It’s strange to go to the grocery store, tell the clerk, “Bon Apres Midi,” while “y’alls,” and “fixin’ tos” are fighting for head time.
My novel is set in the seventies in a fictitional East Texas town.
My life is set in modern day Southern France, near the Riviera.
It’s all just too weird.
I think this is why writers go insane, why we succumb to straight jackets (that our spouses kindly hand us because they think it’s utterly weird that we’re surprised when our characters pull fast ones on us). The simple truth is that we go nutty because we have too many people and places in our heads. Grits mixed together with pain au chocolat. Wild hogs battling Bichon Frisees. Cowboy hats next to berets. How’s a girl supposed to cope?
Patrick asked me something today. I had a far off look on my face, apparently. “What are you thinking?”
“My book. The plot. The characters.” The truth is, I was wondering about Mara, how she was going to make it through the book, which, of course, made me worry how I was going to make it through my edits.
Perhaps next week, I’ll be fully in France again, eating croissants with the best of them.
At least that’s what I’m fixin’ to do.