After a long, dry period of blog neglect my good intentions here are to now resume regular posting (providing the work crew currently resurfacing the road to hell doesn’t need my good intentions for paving material.)
Pretty much all of my discretionary hours over the last nine months have been wholly owned by a book project. As you may know, I took a real job back in January of ’11 because I and my family were in the habit of eating and not sleeping in cardboard boxes beneath overpasses. That pushed book writing into nights, weekends,
This book isn’t one of mine. It’s another of my “ghost” projects. This will bring the number of published books I’ve written or edited for other people over the last 18 years to “34.” That’s not quite two books per year for not quite two decades–but there have been some years recently in which I wrote four books. Of the previous 33 books, three have made the New York Times non-fiction list. And precisely two have contained acknowledgement with my name in it.
I’m not complaining. That’s the deal with ghostwriting. Ghosts are supposed to be invisible. It’s in the job description.
Of course, those years of cranking out a book every three or four months were those in which I didn’t have a fulltime, 8-5 job. I was self-employed or freelancing. This book I just finished last week was begun last September and was supposed to be complete by the end of December. That’s right. I was supposed to submit the manuscript almost five months ago.
Blessedly, I had a profoundly patient client and publisher. The whole ordeal made it abundantly clear that books are not going to be a part of my life for the foreseeable future.
In any event, I now have a significant chunk of my life back so blogging will recommence, along with exercise, recreational reading, date nights with my bride and other evidences of having a life.