Battling the Inner Eight Year Old

It’s summer, and they are resurfacing every road within a hundred miles of me. Nothing like the smell of hot asphalt in hot humidity. To be honest, I’d be perfectly happy riding around on bare concrete.

And there, I am. I’m trying to come up with a topic for this blog post, and the best I can come up with is civil engineering.

So, where am I? I’m thinking of printing out the “other” rough draft, and pushing the one I’ve been working on to the back burner. Again. I’m more or less evenly divided between finish what you start and… after everything that’s happened in the last year or so, I deserve a fresh start. Maybe the manuscript deserves one, too. If I just back away, maybe I’ll be more excited about it the next time around. (Or, you know… maybe I won’t. I still haven’t figured out exactly what’s wrong with it.)

I’m finding myself stumbling into another children’s book… accidentally… entirely accidentally… which is weird. They are not highly educational, upmarket children’s books. They might be more… “fun uncle who doesn’t have to live with them, and probably fed them cotton candy and gummy worms for supper” children’s books. No idea what to do with them. But I may be approaching a number that I could actually do something with them.

**googles How to Submit Children’s Books** followed, of course, by “How not to scar children for life

The year’s a mess, and apparently, the answer to that is… complete and total regression into my eight-year-old self? Maybe.

I am now 56,000 words of short stories into the year. Time to do a little editing on those, too.

So, what about you? Where are you, in this crazy, mixed up year? What has your inner eight-year-old gotten up to?

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