It’s probably not a surprise that I always wanted to be a writer. It’s all the things that came out of that dream that are surprising. And, just like most writers, it began with a love for reading.
He let me know how strong the bones of the story were, but that it needed more work before it was done. My ego flared brighter with each mark on the story. I mean, I’ve been a writer all my life, and an avid reader. I knew what I was doing, dammit. So I did the mature thing. I decided to quit writing.
Some romance novels take my breath away, but not always in a good way.
After too many virtual happy hours, it was time for a change.
This morning, in an effort to find that peace, I decided to write a love letter to my novel. I know, I know. This is painfully cheesy. But you guys, it worked. Instead of feeling like my manuscript is a burden standing in the way of my happiness, I have this seed of warm love for the story, almost like it’s my own child, held in my hands.
Usually after I write an ultra vulnerable post, admitting all the things I’m struggling with, I wake up with a vulnerability hangover. Not today. I feel relief, like breathing is a little easier.