I am disappointed with myself. I have been so busy writing books, and working full-time hours at my job, I have ignored this little piece of heaven that allows me to write about anything I deem worthy to write about. I miss the freedom of being able to put together strings of sentences that are not required to tie into the series of books I have written, or the new stand-alone novel on which I am working. This blog is my refuge from the ties that bind me to those ideas. This writing space is my freedom.
While the sound of thunder rumbles outside of my house, and the rain falls heavily on the foliage so desperate for sustenance, I take refuge in the words that don’t have to mean anything, but they mean so much to me. This blog is my escape from the rules of writing. Here, I can say anything. And, though these words may mean nothing to the characters who haunt my waking hours and invade my personal space, the words I share in this space mean a great deal to me.
Since becoming a self-published author, I feel like I have lost my voice to the voices who have added their perspective to my narratives. I will never be ungrateful for their input, but I feel compelled to visit this blog more often than I have been to allow it to give me the freedom to banish those voices and speak for myself for a change.
The book I am currently working on is a stand-alone book that I will carry with me like a shield, back into the trenches to look for a literary agent. The time has come. If I am going to follow my dream of getting my stories onto the big screens, I need a friend in my corner with connections to the outside world that is so far beyond my comprehension, it is alarming. But I am willing to tackle this next step with every ounce of strength I have, and I am ready to face the rejections until I find the agent who will pull me out of these deep trenches and convince me they share my vision.