when the book about life becomes a life about a book. writer problems, in other words.

So I was having a discussion with a fellow author who is in the midst of completing a book.

One thing became abundantly clear.  The writer gets so blindly engrossed in the work that everything else in his life suffers.  Stuff gets ignored, like romance and potted plants, pets or making another season of Twin Peaks.

Observe someone working against his own interests, even forgetting sometimes to eat or sleep.

Paradoxically, if publishing becomes an issue in the author's mind, then that can become the focus, raising the spector of the author losing the narrative all together thanks to said distraction, already picturing the finished product, rather than worrying about actually making the thing.

During my first novel, I took a good long break of six weeks during the rough phase.  Mind that I had been going at a break-neck pace with no time off before that, and after the break I resumed like a hurricane.

To be so completely engrossed in an idea is the fate of a writer, but once published, its gone like a campfire the morning after.  Such individual twists and turns, but looking at the road sign ahead, is the fate of the writer.

In the outlining phase, I don't adopt that focus exclusively, but have sometimes worked on several outlines at once, thanks to having a productive mindset, an overly active mind, probably on a bipolar high, or a caffeine binge, working near its waking peak.

But the first quandry, being absorbed by the material.  One's only hope is to finish the story, no?  The particular author knows his story, and knows, or should, all the details, and therefore is uniquely capable of getting the thing published, seeing the finished product of that beautiful book waiting for the eager hands of readers.