So life has been a torrent of things lately. Bought a house, started a new project at work, been planning vacations and summer and so on and so forth. I’ve been busy, and I have two books out to beta readers. So, aside from writing the occasional flash fiction bit and critiquing other works, I’ve fallen down a bit on the job of writing.
I know, I know, shame on me.
But it’s worse than that. As I went on critiquing, I lost some fire. The stuff I was reading was good, that wasn’t the problem. It was just slow going. And then that voice came back, as I looked at all the work I was doing.
“Do you even really like to write, or are you just doing this out of compulsion?”
That’s a scary voice to have in your head after countless hours of work, let me tell ya. And I listened to it. I got complacent. Upon receiving feedback from readers, I looked at my manuscript, and said, “Eh, later.” That surprised me.
It was getting pretty bad.
But then, I got super bored, and decided to go ahead and throw some edits into my novel. I took the feedback, and began straightening out my story. Two hours in, I noticed that I was smiling.
I love creating stories. I love making sure that my children, the characters, are taken care of. That they grow and flourish, and that their grand adventure is worth telling. I love it. And I’m not going to stop.
See you around,