I’ve plotted out a 3-book arc for my life. Because that’s what writers do.
It’s actually a very good gauge for writing, a test that I use on my students to see which of them has the bug and which of them is simply — to paraphrase what my mentor Bill Drummond said the other day — passing time. We see our lives as one chapter after another in a finite story that will, most unexpectedly but also assuredly, end.
My books: Objects in Reality, Samurais in Austin and The Things I Left Behind.
I’m 50,000 words into the first book, although I haven’t written on it in two years. I’m staring at it right now as it sits, lonely, in a binder. Waiting to be moved. And loved again. Which it will be. Soon.
There’s no sense in hashing out the stories with you now. If you know me, you already know them. Unless, like me, there are some parts you’ve forgotten. Either way, the plots aren’t important. Not to this story.