In between sitting around waiting for my Country Living Halloween issue to show up in the mailbox, getting allergy shots, and haunting the Anthropologie online sale rack in case something (anything. A sock. I don't care.) unexpectedly drops below fifty dollars, I am writing a novel.
It's for a class that is officially called "Special Projects in Fiction" but which people routinely call "Meg's Novel-Writing Class". It was an accident how I came to be taking this class, but, as with every writing class I've taken so far, I'm enjoying the crap out of it. You wouldn't know this if you were actually in the class with me. I spend most of my time there sitting like a deer in headlights - or maybe a deer that's found itself randomly in a novel-writing class - waiting for everyone to find out that I still sort of secretly think third-person limited omniscient sounds more like a religious movement than anything I would include in a story and that I just want to get back to my pleasant rumination of acorns and woody plants.
But under the general sense of panic, I like the class. A lot.
Try saying this: "I'm working on my novel."
I haven't been able to. It makes me feel like an imposter.