I never quit writing. Or thinking of writing. Or making notes on my phone about writing. I dream of it. I go to sleep to the thought of it. I'm constantly...writing. Even when I'm not.
I'm working on several pieces right now. First and foremost would be the five-book series. Book one is finished. Book two lacks perhaps three thousand or so words. I've written about twelve thousand on book three. As soon as I publish this blog, I'm back at it.
Writers will tell you that no one understands them. And that's incredibly true. Only other writers can appreciate the madness that grips when ideas flood your gray matter. Must. Write. Now.
And we bitch about editing or a synopsis or God knows what. And we certainly do. But we love it. Every damn word. Every damn edit. Every damn breath we breathe into the story.
Creative people are quite mad. They hear things others don't. They see things others don't. They FEEL things others don't. It as if there's a plane of existence slightly above the one we're meandering around on now. Where all these characters and their stories are simply waiting to be written. And when a writer plugs into that...it's magic.
So now I'm going to be searching for a home for my stories. And I find it interesting how picky I can be. How I want so badly for my stories to fit in just...the...right...spot. I won't take less than that from anyone. My stories deserve nothing but the perfect fit. They deserve a home where they are appreciated and enjoyed.
That's where my journey is taking me. Out into the wilderness. Finding my path. Books tucked firmly beneath my arm. Warm patchwork scarf wrapped around my neck. I'll knock on doors until I find the one where my books and I are welcome to come in and warm ourselves by the fireplace and perhaps have a cup of hot cocoa.
Then I'll know we're home.
********
I'm working on several pieces right now. First and foremost would be the five-book series. Book one is finished. Book two lacks perhaps three thousand or so words. I've written about twelve thousand on book three. As soon as I publish this blog, I'm back at it.
Writers will tell you that no one understands them. And that's incredibly true. Only other writers can appreciate the madness that grips when ideas flood your gray matter. Must. Write. Now.
And we bitch about editing or a synopsis or God knows what. And we certainly do. But we love it. Every damn word. Every damn edit. Every damn breath we breathe into the story.
Creative people are quite mad. They hear things others don't. They see things others don't. They FEEL things others don't. It as if there's a plane of existence slightly above the one we're meandering around on now. Where all these characters and their stories are simply waiting to be written. And when a writer plugs into that...it's magic.
So now I'm going to be searching for a home for my stories. And I find it interesting how picky I can be. How I want so badly for my stories to fit in just...the...right...spot. I won't take less than that from anyone. My stories deserve nothing but the perfect fit. They deserve a home where they are appreciated and enjoyed.
That's where my journey is taking me. Out into the wilderness. Finding my path. Books tucked firmly beneath my arm. Warm patchwork scarf wrapped around my neck. I'll knock on doors until I find the one where my books and I are welcome to come in and warm ourselves by the fireplace and perhaps have a cup of hot cocoa.
Then I'll know we're home.
********
