I’m in a writing slump. Morning pages and a blog post are all I’ve written in weeks. I’m so caught up in the second wave of trying to market Remember the Sweet Things that I can’t seem to settle down. Emails are all I manage to write, and even they deal mainly with book event possibilities up and down the West Coast.

 No detail is too small to not need my immediate attention—dogs’ bowls must be scrubbed; recipes must be tested; buttons must be replaced on a shirt I haven’t worn in two years. Will you look at that? It’s almost time for “The News Hour.”  Too late to start any writing now, I say to myself after squandering another afternoon. 

 ”What will your next book be about?” I’m asked often enough. As if I knew. As if another book is inevitable and I’m not a one-book wonder. 

I fell into a book deal, in an incredible stroke of beginner’s luck. Now I need to get real, to move my head out of the magic kingdom of Book World, to think smaller about articles I can write and places I can send them. Like all the other unknowns, working at their craft. Writers write. If I don’t produce, I have to relinquish the title.