I am not prolific. Writing a blog every Monday is not easy for me, but I’m up for the challenge. Why write at all? It helps me to order my thoughts. And I enjoy putting myself out there to see if people can relate. Plus, I like words, ideas, and images; my black cats curl up together licking at each other, in love, until Annie swats at Grams with her paw all while my next door neighbor runs her garbage disposal. I imagine the putrid odor of week old chili.
Anthony, a co-worker of mine, is amazingly prolific. He gave me a notebook filled with 300 pages nine months ago. Now he says he has another notebook to give me containing a 275 page story. I know he writes daily for hours and seems to never run into a glitch. The dreaded glitch. I fall into its dark hole and scrap myself on its jagged walls on the way down landing in mud that sucks me in up to my chest. My are arms and hands are still free.
Anthony is constantly telling stories at work. He has the gift of gab, something I lack. I respect his process very much. Mine is different. I’m mostly silent when I’m not on the page, pen in hand.
I’m writing a Young Adult novel. I have read many Young Adult books. If the writing is not brilliant, the story telling always is. I want to see if I can write a good story that has nothing to do with me. I’m hoping to write eight pages a week giving me 32 a month and at least 200 in six months.
I thank you for your attention to my blog. I thank you for your likes and responses along the way. They help curve my frustration at being rejected by fifteen agents I have queried for my second book in the last two months.
May peace be with you.