Things I’m feeling are: terror, excitement, cautious enthusiasm, and more terror. In today’s marketplace, being a writer means being an entrepreneur. There’s the blogs, there are interview to organize, photos to paw through, and web pages to update. This is the total opposite of sitting in my office, in candlelight, finishing the intimacies of my memoir.
You are where my heart is happy, my next best paragraph, my acceptance letters, and the reason i continue to do what i do.
The story is mixed in shades of darkness and stormy seas of confusion and grief, following a path of color and culture as the main character, Mo, finds the freedom to liberate the heavies in a sort of reality check taking stock of what she really has left in this world.
I know that as a writer, I’m not supposed to obsess about publishing. I’m supposed to put my head down and keep writing, and never to get discouraged when the rejection letters come.
Fall is a magical time for children and adults, with transforming leaves, cozy sweaters and hot cups of tea outside in the evening. Along the side of the road, the pumpkin patch calls, as do the apple trees, the carrots, and our small (but loyal) plot of potatoes. It is a time of harvest.
Oh glorious summer! You’re slipping away so quickly. Thanks for the great times, Summer, for keeping the sun worshiping, south shore ocean dipping, lobster cracking, oyster shucking soul in me forever blessed by your sandy toes and your smoky barbeques.
So i’ve ripped and i’ve torn it , shaped it and , formed it ~ and for the moment, I’ve finished my memoir.
Whew! Twenty months of writing, eight months of revising and a pile of edits and rewrites have finally gotten me to this most critical stage: Querying.