Progress is so damn incremental.
I’m not sure that I actually enjoy writing so much as I love being creative. It’s intention versus execution, something I’ve always had a bit of a struggle with.
I love ideas. I have lots of ideas. Great ideas. How to plan a novel, how to change my life, how to change the world.
An example: How about if Mississippi, one of the poorest, if not THE poorest state in the nation, were to try something a bit different when it came to enticing businesses here. Instead of giving a business a tax subsidy forever, what if the powers that be were to offer it like an introductory plan: Set up business here, we’ll give you a tax credit for, say, 10 years, with the understanding that the business will remain for say, 20 years. If for whatever reason the business doesn’t pan out, then they would have to pay the amount they would have been taxed.
Not perfect, and I lack the legalese, but it seems possible. If they wanted to go crazy, they could set wage levels and what not so we wouldn’t have one more business adding more minimum wage jobs that don’t do much for the economy.
But that’s crazy talk. I know.
Or you know, get rid of the tax on food BEFORE we do away with the income tax?
But I digress.
The writing is coming along. Slowly. Painfully and slowly. It’s like pulling teeth, which is strange. I know this is the book I want to write. In a moment of madness, I discovered the overreaching arc and the crisis, something that will require heavy editing once I’m finished to ensure that it’s consistent with the arc. I have ideas out of the yin-yang (which, I’m not really sure which part of the body to which that actually refers), but sitting down and actually writing is difficult and a bit painful.
Lyrical Fool 