…this thing called writing.
It just won’t go away no matter how much I try.
Yet this same compulsion causes me so much agony.
Because I see no results.
My works languish like a worn out farm tractor sitting in a field.
Relegated to word documents that sit on my computer. Filed away on some hard drive never to be seen.
I pray, “God direct me. Use me. Use this gift.”
And I feel no answer.
It frustrates me.
I’m not getting any younger.
I feel called to something more, something great even, but it never comes.
Or it’s too slow in coming.
Yep, got it. Doesn’t help me much though.
My YA paranormal is going nowhere. Discouraging.
I’ve basically given up on the thing.
“Who am I?”
Not Tim Tebow. Jenny McCarthy. Bill Clinton. Sarah Palin. Or anyone else famous who has written a book.
Started a new novel this morning.
Well, not new. It’s a resurrected idea that I plan to completely re-write.
For I can only write what I know. What I have learned. What I think others NEED to know before they learn it the hard way like I did.
And tears are shed…
Still, my heart remains heavy. No relief. Just anxiety…
I feel lost right now. Debating about taking unpaid work (being a columnist again) just to satisfy this yearning deep within…
Debating a lot of things I could do. Trying to come up with new ideas.
Yet my dream remains the same.
There must be room for me. Hundreds of books are published every year. I have a niche…
For everyone has a story to tell.
I just wish (and pray) I could pinpoint mine.