So I’m just about to head out to New York.  But first I’m sitting on my ball, drinking my smoothie and coffee and writing ‘dis guy.  And practicing a bad psuedo-New York accent, apparently.  

Have I told you how excited I am to go to New York?  I get to see TONS of old friends, and meet all my new ones at McIntosh and Otis and at Orbit.  I may simply burst with excitement.  If I hadn’t only slept 6 hours and had gotten more coffee in me, at this point.  Right now I’m drooping, rather.  But I will persevere.

So next week I’m running Hollywood week over at the League, but one of the things I hope to do while in New York is to take lots of pictures on the inner workings of Orbit/McIntosh and Otis, and I’ll maybe be super ambitious and do some interviews with people and really get into that.

Mostly because, as far as the writing process is concerned, I’m done drafting and now I’m going to start writing the third book.  Probably today.  So most of my “process” will consist of, “doing all the same shit I did yesterday, today.”  That’s the part about writing that, I think, stands in the way of peole who “want to write a book” and people who want to be writers.  The writing.  Cause MAN IS IT BORING.  I mean, it’s awesome, especially when it flows and you enjoy what you’re writing.  But it’s EVERY DAY.  And the progress is minute.  I’ll be blogging soon about “word count,” and how much I write per day, but I can tell you now that it’s not much.  It’s why I agree with my brother, about painting.  My brother fights crime, and he does so at a very elite level within his department.  Evil, as I was just reminded from Watchmen, never goes away.  It’s part of human nature.  So his job is the ultimate version of mine, only it REALLY matters.  He arrests one criminal, only to find, like with the hydra, two more spring up to take that criminal’s place.  He can never come home at the end of the day and say, “Honey, I defeated crime!  YAY for me!”  He just makes little dents.  Which is why he likes painting, as in house painting.  He takes a room with white walls.  Four hours later, he has a room with yellow walls.  He made a big ass dent in something.  A big, noticeable, quantifiable dent.  Whereas his day-to-day job (like mine) is one where, for the vast majority of the time, you just tinker and chip and poke.  Very small dents are made from minute to minute; day to day.  UNTIL, of course, you hold the finished manuscript or make the million-dollar drug bust.  THEN you feel pretty freaking good, in a way that painting a room never could. 

But it takes patience, and perseverence, and a level of masochism.  There are easier, more quickly-rewarding ways to live your life than being a writer or being a crime-fighter.  Masked or otherwise.  

That said, part of the reason I’m so very proud of my brother is because he does what he does, despite the fact it’s not easy and it’s not always that rewarding and he gets paid, as I do, a civil servant’s salary.  Which is Latin for peanuts.  

There are, however, other rewards in life than just monetary or career rewards.  Luckily, ’cause I’m blessed with a loving family, I know the feelings of pride we all have for each other are mutual.   Writing my book felt amazing; holding my manuscript in my hands for the first time was almost transcendental.  Getting my agent was one of the most exciting days of my life, and I can’t even begin to describe what getting the book deal felt like.

But you know the best part about this whole thing?  Writing my dedication and my acknoweldgements for Tempest Rising.  Because the only thing better than getting the deal was the joy in my parents’ voices, and in my brother’s and his family’s, when I told them I’d done it.  

I could never have done anything I do without their tremendous love and unconditional support.  And I can’t ever fully express my gratitude or my affection.  But this is the beginning.  Thank you, my family.