As anyone who aspires to publish their writing knows, not only is it hard work, it’s work that’s hard on you. I continue to dream the dream, working that forty-hour grind while trying to be grateful all the while for that forty-hour grind.
I am grateful, but I’m more grateful for being able to write. Penning a story, characters, places, conflicts, and resolutions is an enjoyable thing, likely within the top two personally enjoyable attempts at a creative pastime I’ve ever attempted. And having beta readers enjoy my work is great also. Recently, a woman said her sister came into her room and asked what was wrong, because the reader was cursing. Her answer? She was angry with one of my characters. When you can illicit emotion like that with mere words, what a thrill.
At the moment I’m working on a synopsis for my fifth novel, and it’s (they all are, right?) special. With great characters, a great hook, a great conflict, and a great (I’m a romantic at heart) love story, what’s not to love?
Fellow writers, you know how it is. We hope for that break, but it only comes with hard work, not only learning the craft of writing but learning the craft of storytelling so the reader stays engaged. My mantra is this: If I write something a reader skims, I’ve failed.
Here’s to us, the hard workers, the writers.
In the canoe, in my heart, the dark of her curls blend with the gold of sunrise.
With water glassy we paddle, unison’s time, rhythm’s endearing.
Over her shoulder she smiles. Hope leaps. Love pains at future’s parting.
It’s not often colors blend such as these.
Mercurial silver of water. Hazel of eye. Red of lips.
It’s not often to welcome falling into depths like those below …
… when she must leave.
When I keep an attitude of gratitude, the day is so much sweeter.
We must live within them from time to time. Clouded mist and gray skies. But then emerges blue-sky dreams filled with hope. Hope tugs our hearts and souls on ghost threads tangible as steel and delicate as ether. Strong as any weapon while fragile as love’s fading kiss. How strong are your hopes? And how weak? And do you hope at all? I certainly hope so.
And so should you.
As the budding rose is to the rising sun
drawing forth in fiery splendor
so are we
As the smile of a child is to the parent’s heart
bringing forth love in all its mysterious ways
so are we
As the gull is to wave tops
endlessly seeking above crests foamy and golden at sunrise
so are we
As the oak leaf is to emerald grandeur
awaiting the final downward drift with gust and gale
so are we
As we each seek our path, yearning above all else to
lock hope away in our hearts
set it free
Allow hope to bloom, to laugh, to soar
at the end
you will pass forth with joy and thanksgiving
filled to everlasting
As we look at others
we should look at ourselves
As we walk in judgement
we should judge ourselves
As we wish for ourselves
we should wish for others
As life is to live
so life be to give
if only to give the gift
of wishing well
Every weekday morning as I wake, the alarm a demon beep-beep-beeping in my ear, I sigh. I feel as if I’m being pulled apart, the writer in me wanting nothing more than to have a bite, take a walk, and get down to the pleasure of emptying myself of thoughts, feelings, characters, while knowing I will be full by tomorrow, ready to do it all over again.
Is this your dream also?