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There's still plenty of work to be done. I need to finish one client's project this week; I have another new project due in three weeks. Somewhere in there I'd like to edit Ghost Writer and get it in shape, and continue with Twenty-One while keeping that one on a tight leash so it doesn't become my latest writing obsession (which it wants to. Badly.) And because I obviously don't have enough to do, I'm also working on Her Majesty's Deathmage. In December I'll probably be spending eight to twelve hours a day writing and editing. It sounds like a lot, but we don't call it the writing life because we spent all our time watching television.
This time last year I had just ended an eight-month hiatus from writing to deal with my eye issues, and I'd started my first job as a freelance writer. I remember only too well how nervous I felt; my brain was barraged by the usual what-if doubts: What if I'd picked the wrong client? What if I messed it up and ruined my chance to get another job? What if my mojo had evaporated? What if by striking out on my own I'd made a horrible mistake? I might have talked myself out of the whole deal if not for the work.
As always writing saved the day. It told me to forget about the what-ifs and get on with it. I'd done my research, and I'd chosen a reliable client with a great project. I'd outlined a terrific story. More than anything, I wanted to do this and make it work so I could get my career going again. I couldn't ignore everything -- doubt is like having a gigantic wasp nest dangling by a thread over your head; no one can honestly pretend it's not there -- but I could choose to focus on the thing over which I had the most control. The thing I loved and I was pretty good at doing, too. Which I did, and here I am.
Here we are. Now what are you going to focus on?