About eight years ago, I began a new manuscript. It was called “Mina” and was about a 40ish woman on the brink of making choices in her life after she finds herself in a rut. It was about her thoughts on marriage, on soup and wheatgrass shots, and anger. It went on and on, and after a hundred and fifty pages, I abandoned it, saving only four pages concerning a pregnant widow. Novels about women’s mid-life crisis and about pregnant widows were published. The celebrated Indian authors, who seemed to be nobel laureate-type scientists with an itch to write came out with their even more celebrated books. I told myself I did not mind, I was only a bit jealous, and anyway, I had yoga classes to attend, and weights to lift. My book would end on belly laughs, be a small, light crepe, a creme wafer.
It’s nearly done, maybe is done, and now I wait for feedback.