A couple of guys once asked me what writing a novel was like. I told them it felt like diving underwater and holding your breath. For six months. That was in August of last year. I finished the novel yesterday - and by finished I mean I wrote the first draft, wrote a second draft, and turned it in to my novel class. so now I can breathe.
This is a strange sensation, breathing. I really don't know what to do with my lungs. I suppose I'll get used to it - humans tend to adapt well - but I can't escape the feeling that I should dive back under. The experience was odd, yes, even unnerving. I developed new skills - like holding my breath for a really long time - and shed old habits - like shaving. Who shaves underwater? I wanted that mer-man look, but I turned out more like a black Gorton's Fisherman. Oh well.
But now, ashore, on dry land, I'm noticing all sorts of things I missed undersea. It's winter! Who knew? I'm teaching English 102 and Intro to Creative Writing this semester. I'm taking the Novel class, African-American Rhetoric, and African American Women's Metaphysical Fiction, as well as two separate pedagogy classes for the classes I teach. I've been elected Non-Fiction editor of the Black Warrior Review. I'm going to Mobile and New Orleans for Mardi Gras, Chicago for a convention in mid-February, and Washington D.C. this weekend (for the inaguration - look for me on TV! I'll be the guy giving away GEORGE BUSH IS A PUNK-ASS CHUMP bumperstickers), and Atlanta on Thursday and Friday. I really should get a calendar or something. And a motorcycle. I'm buying a motorcycle - probably a Honda V-Star or something similar. I saw a Harley Sportster yesterday that was $800 over my price limit. I'm thinking about that one.
I hear the sea calling me. I know I'll go back. But not today, not for a few days at least.