Reading through my novel for its first round of edits. So far, so good – no nervous breakdowns, no setting fire to the manuscript, metaphorical or otherwise. Thirty pages to go, and if I make it, it’ll be passed along to a couple trusted readers with merciless eyes. If I survive that, it goes to my professor. Weeee. I didn’t set out to become a novelist. It never was the plan. A PhD, not a plot arc. But here we are after all is said and done, a book. With characters and conflict and maybe not enough conflicts. Reminds me of a pianist spending months trying to master one solo by Chick Corea, only to get sidetracked one afternoon and accidentally write a melody that greatly amuses him. He didn’t mean to compose he was just trying to understand the changes. But a song shows up anyway, uninvited and in its own way, perfect. I enrolled to analyze. But somehow I wrote.