Four consecutive days away from work did wonders for my interest and focus level in writing. The 2006-2007 school year is now a memory. During the regrouping period, I watched a bunch of DVD’s, read a few books and tackled those edits. Roughly one hundred and forty pages remain to be implemented.

It’s been a long road and the end of this journey is near. The Last Track took almost three years to move from a very rough draft to something I can pitch to any agent or interested party with confidence. There is really nothing more I can do with this manuscript that would improve it more than changing the toner cartridge in the printer; I left nothing on the table. Back then, if someone told me what a pain in the ass writing a novel is, really the effort it takes to get it right, to make it the best I’m capable of, I would have pushed them down the stairs for heresy. And I wouldn’t have listened, either. Writing is mystical, magical, worth any sacrifice. Right?

More often than not the process has been fun, and it is its own reward. Ultimately, I did it because I have to, and no matter what happens now, to me the ride was worth the fuel cost for the trip. Even at full retail. Sometimes I wonder if it was worth a divorce, but that’s another discussion.

Though all the above rational are valid, I’ll state this with absolute conviction: I’m aching to start another project. Whether it’s resuming The Confession, or a new screenplay idea, I’m ready for new ground. Oh, the places I will go.