Writing has been called a solitary profession. All the words, ideas and characters live inside my head. No matter what kind of input or support surrounds me, it's up to my brain to transcribe my chaos and assemble it into an entertaining format.
There are a lot of days when that doesn't happen. Those are the days that I call my friends, email my writing buddies or read writing blogs. Some days I simply read. It's natural to compare myself to other people. As long as the competition is healthy, it drives me to improve my craft. It always inspires me to write faster, funnier, and with more heart.
There are days when I feel like I can't measure up. I am blown away on a regular basis by the talent of my writing friends. I occasionally threaten to burn my manuscript because there are only so many publishing slots and so many of my friends deserve it.
Then there are the kids, the next generation of writers, who have such enthusiasm for the written word that I have to suck up the insecurity. Some of them look to me for guidance. What kind of example would I be if I gave up when the writing got hard? Finishing the first book is the most difficult. Once you have that confidence under your belt, it becomes easier.
Oh, who am I kidding? Each book presents its own set of challenges - and rewards. Support from other writers, from potential readers,and from people I respect, is what keep me scribbling on the back of my shower wall, sitting up in the middle of the night to jot down ideas or recording snippets of dialogue.
Thank you. Here is a tiny excerpt for those of you :ahem CBs: who have asked so nicely. I have little idea where, if anywhere, it's going.
He had strong hands; wide, blunt-fingered and calloused. They were the kind of hands that would be equally capable of gripping the fraying knot-end of a zip line or stroking the soft underside of a woman's breast. They were the hands of her next victim.
I told you it was short.