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.
I’m in this super deep funk right now where I can’t see up from down. Sure, I can blame COVID, but this has been going on since way before we knew what it was like to SIP for months on end. In an attempt to purge myself of every block standing in the way of my writing, I’m going to be ultra vulnerable here and spew my stuff in this blog post. Get comfy. This is long.
I’ve spent a lot of energy lamenting my failure as an author. I shouldn’t even write this. No successful author ever admits this.
Everyone in the world can sing. Not everyone can sing well, but everyone has the ability to move their voice up and down in some way, even adding words to go with the melody. Singing isn’t really something new. And yet, only a select few of us will ever sing for another human being. It’s … Continue reading Writing naked.