My thanks to Debora Dennis for inviting me to participate in this blog hop to discuss my writing process. I accepted twice – once last week under my pen name and once this week. To see what my alter ego had to say, check out the post here: Arla Dahl
I am working on keeping track of who I am on a given day since I’ve been switching hats, playing erotic author one day and romantic suspense author the next. At this moment, I’m working on revisions for a story I fell in love with – flaws and all. I am now smoothing those flaws – or trying to.
CANYON ROAD, my current romantic suspense, is set amongst the stunning, though unyielding, Colorado Rockies. It delves into the heart of an abuse survivor as she fights to overcome the past and move on with her future, only to become trapped in the crazed and deadly world of a man determined to rescue his kidnapped sister and nephew. Survival techniques abuse survivors employ are explored as danger levels ratchet ever higher. But no technique is guaranteed, and without wit and a willingness to join forces, survival may be but a fading dream. As I drive my hero and heroine toward that common goal – to rescue mother and child from a deranged drug dealer – I force them to they fight a growing attraction that could – will – change them forever.
My hero is a regular guy who becomes a hero because he’s been thrown into a situation where he’s forced to think and behave in ways that are more fine-tuned and forceful than he’s accustomed to. His background isn’t military or law enforcement. His background is a strong family where each member does what they can for the others. I have a soft spot, myself, for men and women who show their own unique heroism in surprising ways, whose bravery has been untapped, untamed or undervalued. And I have a lust for those same heroes and heroines who can tap into something before-unseen that lies deep inside of them, something they call on as danger ratchets ever higher. No formal training. In a life or death situation, they don’t crumble. They become the one to count on.
When I sit with the family to enjoy a movie, that movie will most often have a main theme of action and suspense. Of course, I love comedy and romance. I love whodunits. But a movie with action? A movie that makes me think and wonder and hold my breath? That is the kind of movie I want to see. And that is the kind of book I want to read. And write.
There’s no question that I’m a planner. I am the workshop queen and have taken an uncountable amount of classes on the subject of craft. From each workshop, I’ve taken something, usually something I can weave with other somethings from other workshops.
I’ve pieced those bits together to give myself a process that excites me, that makes me eager to dive in and write. Charts are involved but nothing extreme – too much pre-planning and my muse goes on hiatus.
By the time I’m ready to start Chapter 1, I have a very loose list of events for the story, and a simple chart plotting the order of those events and their emotional impact on the characters.
That’s basically it. If I include too much information upfront, my creative side gets bored because there’s nothing new to discover during the actual writing. Also, if while I’m jotting the notes for potential story events, my muse is stirred, I will stop jotting and actually write the scene, then save it to be inserted into the story at some future point. Some of my most powerful and emotional scenes have been written well before the plotting was through. Its surprises like that which make me fall in love with the writing craft despite the occasional muse mutiny.
Thank you for coming by to see what I’m working on and how I work it. It’s been fun talking about my process and it’s been exciting to talk about my hero and heroine. They’ve been patiently waiting for me to finish some other work and come back to them. And now I am eager to do just that.
Also posting their writing process this week are Debra Druzy and Tuere Morton
Debra Druzy is querying her first finished Christmas story called SLEEPING WITH SANTA, a sensual contemporary romance. She had a job (several of them) but has gone the stay-at-home-mother route, making writing her full-time gig, in the wee hours of the morning, during school hours, and any spare time in between. http://www.debradruzy.com
Tuere Morton writes young adult fiction by night and is a health professional by day, earning an MS from the University of Stony Brook. When she isn’t voraciously reading, the Long Island native’s fearless children and lovable German Shepherd serve as inspirations for her stories. She hopes you’ll enjoy the first book in her series, ICON. http://tueremorton.wordpress.com/
Like most people, when it comes to housework, I do it when I have to. I vacuum when clouds of cat hair rise from the carpet as I walk on it, I dust and I put stuff away. I’m not, obviously, what you’d call a happy homemaker. I never was and probably never will be. But, of course, I like a clean and tidy house. Ah, the dilemma.
I read an article recently which suggested taking 15 minutes in the morning and 15 minutes before bedtime to tidy the house – you know, pile the strewn papers, empty the bathroom trash, put away the ‘stuff’ that appears from nowhere on the kitchen counter. All of that. Morning and night.
Well, if you do that, only fifteen minutes, the first day you’ll see a whole lot of things you could put away, and feel overwhelmed, knowing it would take much longer than 15 minutes to do it. But stick to those fifteen minutes. Do it daily and soon – since you’re tidying before bedtime, too – by morning, there’s not much to tidy. What then? Pick up a dust cloth. Spend the fifteen minutes doing that. No? Then organize a bookshelf. In the evening? Vacuum or pay the bills. I know, I know. I said those 15 minutes changed my life, how is that? By making me a happy homemaker after all?
By organizing and energizing me.
My routine used to be to get up at dawn, feed the cats and get to work (from home, writing). Before the rest of the house stirred, I’d take a break from working, get on the treadmill, shower make breakfast for all then head back to work… taking a serious break again only for lunch and dinner.
Each morning, my sleepy eyes would scan the mess that was my home. I knew I’d have to spend an entire day each week cleaning it and sorting the mail that had piled so high it was falling over. But I had work to do so I kept putting off that day of cleaning. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
By forcing those 15 minutes into my morning and evening routines, the mess was gone. Once everything was in its place after a couple of 15-minute tidy sessions, it was easier to clean – and the clean was more noticeable – and lasting. I could go to work and not worry if someone came to the door unexpectedly. 😳 My bills were paid on time and papers were filed where they were supposed to be. Knowing the chore would be limited to 15 minutes made it manageable. It also awakened the worker-bee in me. I might lag when it comes to home chores, but when I work, I work hard. I looked at it as a job and a challenge. How much can I accomplish in this 15 minute block?
Something about it was energizing. It also didn’t hurt that I could scan the house and see how pretty it actually was.
The added bonus? The life-changing effect? My mind feels clearer. As if that has been tidied, too. Decluttering my space decluttered my mind, seeming to clear a path for the muse to come out and play. I picture her now, as she had been, like a hoarder trapped in her own space, tripping and climbing over clutter so she could come to rest on my shoulder all day. The more clutter there was, the longer she struggled to get through. The harder it was for me to work.
Fifteen minutes in the morning. It takes ten for the coffee to brew. Five for it to get nice and hot on the warming plate. There’s my fifteen minutes. In the evening, on the way to the bedroom, make a quick stop here and there to pick up things in the way. The incentive? Waking early and seeing everything – mostly – in its place. Of course, no matter how diligent you are, there will always – always – be that one dirty dish in the sink that no one ever recalls placing there even though the dishwasher is two inches away.
Fifteen minutes. It made the air cleaner in my house – I have cats, you know.
Fifteen minutes. It decluttered my space and, by extension, freed my muse. Fifteen minutes. It makes unexpected company less unwelcome (ha), clears the dust from the muse’s eyes, and has, honestly, changed my life.
My local writing chapter, Long Island Romance Writers, is hosting its 16th Annual Agent/Editor Luncheon this Friday, June 7th. Soon after, in July, RWA is holding its Annual Conference. Both will be a time for mingling, networking, connecting and reconnecting, and, most of all, pitching our work to interested editors and literary agents.
Often, simmering below the fear of the actual pitch is the fear of rejection. Rejections, however, are sewn into this business and no one has, as of yet, determined a workaround. The best thing to do is prepare. By that, I don’t mean we need to expect a rejection, but that we need to put rejections into perspective.
When I say rejections are sewn into this business, I not only refer to agents and editor rejections but also rejections from readers. Face it, not everyone will like our work. This is such a subjective business and we know negativity is out there – or if we don’t know, we find out soon enough.
Unfortunately, I think we tend to cling to the negative even if its dose is a tiny fraction of the positive.
I’m working on an erotic novella trilogy. Book 1 is finished, Book 2 is plotted and waiting for attention, and Book 3 is, at this point, merely a back-cover blurb. I’ve received great feedback from my beta readers. All honest, helpful and encouraging. Out of the seven people who read it, only one did not like it.
Notice, I didn’t say, six loved it.
Though six did love it, one did not. That one is the one that matters most to me. That one unhappy reader, the one negative review, tends to be the one that carries the most weight with us as artists. We pour so much of ourselves into our creations that one dissenting voice comes through as if on a bullhorn.
Alone, that’s not a bad thing. It’s what we do after we’ve digested the reason for the
negativity constructive criticism (it’s all about perspective) that matters.
Do we agree? Do we see a way to make adjustments to mitigate some of the concerns raised without compromising our vision for our story? Can we take the concerns to the positive beta readers for additional feedback or perspective? Some of the most negative feedback, when applied properly, can take a rough patch of story and make it shine.
This type of refocusing attention also applies to pitching our stories to agents and editors. Some will latch onto the idea with enthusiasm while others might cringe, pleasantly say it’s simply not for them, or dismiss you – not just your story – outright. And yes, the latter has happened to people I know and love.
So what? Not everyone will love us. Not everyone will love our work. That’s fine. All is good. Criticism is criticism no matter how gently or cruelly delivered. Our job is to determine its value and our next move.
As I said, this business is subjective. It’s truly as simple as that. If we’ve studied craft, applied ourselves to the project, poured our heart, our tears and our sighs into our stories, and others have rewarded us with honest, unreserved feedback and we’ve applied common sense revisions, then we have done our job.
Someone will always be there to point out a flaw. Others will want what we have to offer because they will ‘get it’. They will get us. They will see the potential in our project and make us feel good about it.
So don’t let ‘no’ stop you. Absorb it. Understand the reason for it. Decide whether to give it weight, and if so, how much. Determine the best direction for it – additional consideration or dismissal – and move forward undeterred.
If you’re anything like me, your muse will have it no other way.
There is a little corner of my word where magic happens. It’s not visible from the naked eye. It’s not always in the same spot. I have to chase it, happen upon it, close my eyes and conjure it. It is my imagination and of late, imaginings there have been quiet, the space taken over by real-life issues – good, great, and could-be-better.
I suppose the most exciting thing to have happened lately is my daughter’s change in status. No longer is she a homeschooled teen doing high school work. No. Now she is a college freshman, having started classes just yesterday.
The homeschool-to-college process isn’t a difficult one – though it was difficult for us. And yes, that means ain’t nothing easy in this world.
Our experience here in NYC is different from the experiences of homeschooled children elsewhere in the country…in the world. While NY State has fairly strict rules and regulations, New York City adds to those by labeling children ‘compulsory age’ until the end of the school year in which they turn 17. Just a mile away, on the other side of the city line, compulsory age is 16. That might not seem like a huge difference, but when you’re trying to get your child into college, it can be. Especially if you tend to trust the words of others more than your own gut.
During our six homeschool years, I’d researched homeschool-to-college methods and ‘knew’ just what I had to do. It wasn’t until last summer as we visited our local community colleges that I realized – or rather, believed – I’d been wrong. The key to a successful homeschool-to-college experience is to know your rights. Plain and simple. Private colleges will have their own rules, but community colleges are bound by the rules of the county in which they exist. At issue, though, was whether we wanted to fight to get into the very school system we’d abandoned back when my daughter was in sixth grade.
And dealing with CUNY schools reminded us of that fact. Rules changed according to the person we speak to. Never was there someone of a higher authority available when we took issue with the ‘facts’ as presented to us.
Finally, after much angst and a year of stalling, we discovered a SUNY school that is not only homeschool-friendly but also offers long-distance degree programs. My daughter, at 16, is now a student at this school. Once she has her associate degree, she will no longer be a ‘homeschool’ student but a transfer student.
Which brings me right back to where I was when we first hit the pavement in search of higher education for my child.
Granted I’d made a mistake. I’ll explain it to you so if you’re looking to have your child go from homeschool to college, you won’t make it to –
From the time my daughter turned 14, we should have enrolled her in one or two college courses – ex. Eng.101, Global History101 – per semester. Courses whose credits naturally transfer. Three to six credits per semester would give a homeschooled student enough credits to transfer to a community college or university by the time they’ve passed compulsory age. At that point, they would transfer into a college and continue their education rather than first start the process as freshmen.
Hindsight obviously doesn’t help us. But remember, planning is almost everything. Knowing your rights and not letting others tell you differently is everything else.
Good luck in your homeschool-to-college endeavors. It may not come easy but when it comes, it is a magical moment so much sweeter than the imagination could ever create.
In case you are not a regular follower of this blog, I ask you to view my original post about the Ghosts of Gettysburg, as that will anchor you into my tale and prepare for for Ghosts of Gettysburg Part 2. The experiences I had with my daughter and a friend were as real as the experience I have now as I type. Of course, some of our experiences were solely personal and could not be documented. Other experiences were captured on film and digital recorders and I included some of that “evidence” in my last post, which you can find here – Ghosts of Gettysburg.
If you’ve already read that first post, you should know a lot has happened since then. I’ve had the chance to listen to more recordings and view more images and have discovered more images – some in the photos I’ve already posted. Debunking some evidence has been easy in some cases and rather difficult in others. I have some recordings that sound intriguing but after hearing the same moment from my daughter’s or friend’s recordings, we realize there is nothing paranormal about them. Despite the evidence we feel is indisputable, disregarding or disproving any of it is a disappointment. Alas… as is the saying, “When in doubt, toss it out.”
For the evidence we believe to be accurate – we can start by having a look at the photo below. It’s from an early morning trek into Reynolds Woods. Originally, I saw two ghostly images in it – one on the path walking toward me, the other crouched in the brush toward the front left. It wasn’t until I looked at the image with a fresh eye, that I saw yet a third ghostly image in the same photo.
Here is the original picture with the two images indicated:
Now here is that same image with the discovery of the third ghostly apparition:
In my last post, I mentioned our experiences with temperature fluctuations in The Wheatfields. Well, I’d left my camera in the car so I don’t have photos from there but I do have an interesting recording. I didn’t hear voices while I was there, but on playback, I heard what sounds like mumbling as we speak and then through the silence, I hear something sad – a man whispering, possibly praying… using the words: “Help me.” “Take me.” “Hey.” Each plea is made a few seconds apart with “Help me” at :18, “Take me” at :21 and “Hey” at :26.
Can you hear them? (For a fuller experience, you might want to use headphones)
Voices in the Wheatfields
To move on with our experiences… after all of the experiences we had throughout the audio/auto tour of the battlefield, which I described in my last post, we went back to an area we had been the night before during a commercial ghost tour. This was a small field behind the Jennie Wade House. Jennie Wade was the only civilian killed during the Battle of Gettysburg. She was baking bread for the troops when a stray bullet ripped through the door and pierced her heart. She died instantly. There are ghost tales about her and her home, but I’ll skip all of that and tell you about the field behind the house since that is where we had several personal – and intense – experiences.
According to our enthusiastic, intriguing and lovely tour guide, Kendra Belgrad, some Confederate soldiers who were outnumbered in this spot by Union soldiers, chose to play dead rather than fight. On retreat, the Confederate soldiers who did fight ‘captured’ these men, called them cowards and said they would never have a hero’s burial but would instead remain in the spot where they failed to fight. The fighting Confederate soldiers then murdered the ‘cowardly’ soldiers and buried them in that field. It is said ghostly images are constantly captured in that field. There are images of orbs, of heads peeking around trees and of men leaning against the trees and holding their muskets.
These are the images we hoped to capture the evening after our auto tour. And we did capture them. Almost immediately.
Once on the field, I turned my camera toward the tree where a lot of activity has been reported. I took a few shots and noticed a red ‘glare’ in them. I’m a photographer’s wife, so I considered the first flare to be simple reflection of tail lights from cars parked in the lot beyond the tree. However, in each photo, the red glare was in a different position. First next to the tree “peeking”, then just around the tree’s edge and then more toward the center of the tree. I looked at each digital image as I shot it and on the fourth or fifth shot, I was stunned. So stunned, that when I glanced at my daughter, the expression on my face scared her into insisting I not tell her what I saw.
What I saw in that startling image was what looked like a soldier who had just been shot and had slammed back against the tree. His hat looks like it tipped down over his face as he slumped back and the red glare is on his shoulder – perhaps where the bullet hit.
Here is the shot immediately after the one above – notice the soldier image is no longer there:
Perhaps they’ll both be easier to see here:
He’s here –
but not here (in the very next shot):
A few minutes later, in a different spot of the field, my daughter’s K2 readings went wild. K2 meters register high magnetic fields. The meter flickered throughout this experience but registered noticeably seconds before our friend said she felt as if someone was standing right between her and my daughter. I fired off three shots and the first one shows a soldier standing precisely where she said she felt a presence. The other two shots show nothing.
I’m pretty sure this one will be very easy to see:
In case you can’t see him, here he is:
Of course, we captured a lot of orbs and other questionable images during our time there. I don’t know enough about orbs to say whether what we caught were spirits, bugs or some other natural phenomena. But… here are a couple of our orb photos and a couple of possible ghost images:
Odd mist in only one of four images:
Outline of man in mirror (Jennie Wade House):
Here’s that last one cropped and indicated:
Don’t think this is it. We captured more voices and suspicious – or should I say “curious” – images and sounds. Here we were walking along Cemetery Ridge when we came upon some black walnuts lying on the ground. As we discussed them, there’s a long labored sigh then a very clear – stern – male voice seems to say, “Open!”. Not sure why he said that but, from his tone, he expected his order to be obeyed. Listen here…the ‘sigh’ happens as we’re walking at :08 and the ‘Open!” is at :15 ,right after I ask, “Are they edible?”
Sigh and “OPEN” at Cemetery Ridge
In my last post, I mentioned how each of us felt uncomfortable at Culp’s Hill. I posted audio of what sounds like the hammer of a rifle/musket and a voice saying, “Whisper!” as my daughter speaks. There are a lot more sounds – some clearly voices – from that spot and I’ll post another one here. It happened as we walked along an unsteady incline on our way further into the woods. Listen as my friend says she hears something and feels like she’s being watched. You’ll first hear my, “Ooo!” as I slip on an wobbly rock, then you’ll hear the drawn out whispered voice talking over us at :04 –
What do you think it says? We hear the words, “Get home!”
I’ll wrap up with two more experiences – in my next post. 🙂
One experience is something I cannot prove. I can only say all three of us endured it at the same moment, sharing our perceptions in real time and noting how each of us knew what the other was going to say before it was said. The experience was that vivid to us all. The other is one that just might make a believer out of the most skeptical among us. It made a believer out of my husband… and since he’s a photographer and our ‘proof’ is on video… that’s saying a lot.
Until next time…
I don’t know how ladylike this is, but I’m excited and want to shout it out to the world. 🙂 One of my stories is a finalist in the Killer Nashville Claymore Contest.
Judging was based on the first 50 pages of each submission, and ten were chosen for the semi-finals. The winner is offered a publishing contract and I wish all of my fellow finalists the best of luck. I’m happy just to final. 😀
Here’s the announcement:
July 25, 2011
Heartfelt Well Wishes to everyone who entered this year’s Claymore Award contest for the best beginning (up to 50 pages) of an unpublished novel not currently under contract. There were many excellent manuscripts, and it was difficult to choose just ten finalists, but the preliminary judges have made their choices.
Congratulations to the 2011 Claymore Award Top Ten Finalists (in alphabetical order by title):
Baron R. Birtcher (Rain Dogs)
Craig Faustus Buck (Go Down Hard)
Bryan Camp (Where the Dead Remain)
Joan Lipinsky Cochran (The Yiddish Gangster’s Daughter)
Judith Dailey (Animal, Vegetable, Murder)
Debora Dale (Canyon Road)
Jessica Ferguson (A Bad Guy Forever)
Frank Jenkins (An Embarrassment of Riches)
Doc Macomber (Riff Raff)
E. Joan Sims (A.K.A. Love)
Killer Nashville Team
I’m a worrier. I’ve always been. When plans are being made, my mind immediately thinks, “‘what if” and each additional “what if” worry I come up with plays off the one before, becoming darker, more… worrisome.
A long time ago, I convinced myself that worrying beforehand helps prepare me for whatever might go wrong. Instead, it only makes me worry more. I have found, in all my years preparing for the worst, I have often failed to enjoy the best. That undercurrent of ‘what if’ is always there, pulling at me, reminding me that at any moment, the bottom can come out from under me. The interesting thing is that it never has. In all my years of worrying, my worries were all for naught.
Of course, bad things happen sometimes but those bad things are usually things I hadn’t planned for or even considered. The best-laid plans…
Worrying is like poison ivy. Pervasive. Toxic. Deceptively attractive.
Have you ever seen poison ivy in Autumn? If I didn’t know what it was, I’d say it’s quite attractive.
Worry, or planning ahead, is deceptively attractive as well because it creates in the worrier a false sense of preparedness.
Why do I compare worrying and poison ivy? Because last night I noticed a red blistery patch on my arm and went into panic mode. I just ‘knew’ I would wake this morning covered head to toe in an unbearably itchy rash. I ‘knew’ my cats had the poisoned oils on their fur because I’d cuddled them. I ‘knew’ my daughter would have it. My husband. I ‘knew’ I’d spend the next year washing every inch of my home – all the clothes, all the upholstered furniture, all the carpets, over and over – reinfecting myself as I handled items with this toxic oil that can, apparently, linger for five years if left untouched.
You know what really happened? Nothing.
Before bed, I used Benadryl ointment and I took one of my trusty antihistamine pills. This morning, I woke with a smaller, less red, less blistery patch on my arm. Yes. I have to wash clothes but it seems the poison ivy – if that’s even what I had/have – is much more contained than I had feared. At least for now.
I’ve used a lot of energy worrying about things that can go wrong. At this point in my life, I’d like to start concentrating what can go right. It’s really time to use positive ‘what if’ questions for myself and negative ‘what if’ questions for the torture of my characters.
Have you ever found yourself worried about something that never materialized or wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be?
btw – here’s a pretty good slide show of poison ivy so if you come upon it, you won’t have to worry that you won’t recognize it. 🙂
In case you’re still worried… here’s a good one page article about poison ivy:
Tribbles, as many people know, were – are? – an alien species humans found oddly compelling. They trilled or purred sweetly. They were soft and cuddly. They made humans feel happy. The trouble with Tribbles was how rapidly they reproduced. Suddenly these precious fluffy purring things were everywhere, including the engine of the Starship Enterprise!
Too many tribbles spoiled the inner workings, distracted people from their jobs and basically caused chaos in an otherwise well-run system. Of course, in the end, the Tribbles saved the day. Yes, many of them sacrificed their lives to do so, but without them, the poisoned grain would not have been discovered and people would have died.
What do tribbles have to do with writer’s workshops? Everything.
Workshops, to the writer, are as appealing and irresistible as Tribbles were to the crew of the Enterprise. While Tribbles gave physical comfort with their soft fuzzy bodies and sweet cooing, workshops give emotional comfort with their promise of clarity and focus. Writers flock to them – especially THIS writer. Paying with cash and time. Investing creative energy into new methods to develop characters, plot and theme, as well as new ways to see each.
The trouble with workshops, like Tribbles, is they way they multiply. The way the lectures pile up until there are mounds of them – mostly filled with phenomenal advice about the writing craft. The trouble with workshops, like Tribbles, is their allure.
And so, despite the distraction of Tribbles and workshops, I simply cannot resist their pull. And I, clearly, will not even try.
Resistance is futile.
That’s the advice I received from one of the many people in the industry to whom I whined about the last rejection I received. “Pull up your big-girl panties and move forward.” Solid advice from a woman in the know.
We’re all entitled to our bon-bon moments. It’s as simple as that. And it should be remembered that bon-bons and other ego-soothing remedies must be used immediately if the healing process is going to be speedy. For the record, my ‘bon-bons’ substitute is my whine and moan. Just so ya know.
Well, I’m done whining and moaning and I’m ready to have another look at my work to see if I can determine why it was rejected and how to either make that story better or do so for the next one. Yes. That means the dream will not go away. A dream – if it’s real – will haunt you until you do all you can to see it come true. I don’t know when I’ll be published. I just know that story-telling is as important to me as caffeine – and that’s saying something for sure.
And so, onward I go. As much for publication as for my own sense of self.
Oh. And those ‘big-girl panties’ I spoke of? Well… make mine red. With black lace.
Otherwise known as rejections or the big “R”.
As a writer, I know rejections come with the territory. Writing is such a subjective art that to expect anyone else to ‘get it’ is presumptuous at best, arrogant at worst. But to hope… well, that’s another story.
As a writer, I’ve written stories that intrigue me. I’ve developed characters about whom I care. I’ve given them twisted backgrounds a company of therapists would vie to take on. And I’ve allowed those characters to find themselves, face their pasts and forge new outlooks and relationships in the form of happily ever after. I’ve upped the stakes for them, hoping to challenge them in every way possible without tipping to farce, in order to show how life, from th
Too bad I can’t apply that same vision to myself. For now, I sit with a long-in-coming rejection. One I’d imagined would never arrive. I thought this was ‘it’, the big break, and that from here my writing path would be free of at least one obstacle. I would like to look in from the outside but, when I try, I only see hours, days, months, years of working toward a dream that has yet to come true. I can only wonder whether I’ve invested too much to stop now, or whether I’ve invested too much to bother investing more.
I always pose this question when a rejection comes through. And I always seem to overcome it with new energy, new determination. New characters and stories. Now? I don’t know. I guess I can’t speak for what will happen or how I’ll think in the coming months. But at this moment, I can only say it’s time to turn over, fluff the pillow and find myself a new dream.