Why did I stop writing?

Last winter, amidst boarding school duties, I somehow managed to write a piece of young adult fiction. It topped out at 52,000 words, which is right within the target Fuller is aiming for with his bird novel. It’s the first book in a series (as far as it’s conceived in my head), but once I finished it, I was so fulfilled (and shocked) that I clapped my hands up and down and (may as well have) said aloud, “welp, that’s done!”

Well over half a year later, I gathered the courage and confidence to send it out into the world for appraisal. I now await feedback (I’m not framing it as judgment).

In the meantime though, how can I consider myself a writer if I’m not actively writing? Sure, I do posts for this site, but what am I doing with my creative energy if not channeling it into the thing that I know resonates with me?

Well, no need to ask the question anymore because I’m back at it, bitches! (Please accept my use of bitches here as completely devoid of gendered connotations and instead as an appropriate exclamation of my excitement. Sure, as a self-declared writer, I could summon other language to express this sentiment, but…fuck it.)

So what’s my current project? Book 2 in my YA series? No, no, although that does have a title and an opening few lines. The new project is a play. I’m going for a Shakespearean/Orwellian spirit, minus the poetry and prophecy and talent.

Oh, and by the way, I’ve gotten closer to choosing a pen name, since no one’s going to buy anything from a Lou Canelli that isn’t about the mob.

Wait for it…Nick Cook. First name is my middle name, Nicholas, abbreviated. Last name is my mom’s maiden name.

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