In the beginning

I thought it would be good to post about what started me on my novel writing.

An acquaintance sent me a book that she wrote.  It took me about an hour to read, and it was insipid and  saccharine at best.  I know those are mean words to write, but it is truth.  It was every cliche in extremely concise text.

It was bad.  I knew I could do better.

So I found inspiration, came with an idea,  created my heroine, and have steadily and carefully built up my story, which is why it  has taken me so very long to craft.  If I didn't work for a steady paycheck, it is possible that it would have been completed by now, but my life is what it is.  I love my life, and jam pack it with as much pretty, creative lovelies as I can.

So here I am, staring down 70,000 words with a strong, proud gaze.  The end is in sight.

This weekend was a sad one - nothing to do with my family or anything, but I attended the memorial service of a person whose life ended entirely too soon.  I am hopeful that I will be inspired to write again in the near future, but I am  not going to force it.

I would love to take a "get lost" drive in the country around Nashville.  It has helped me so much  in the past to remove myself from the reality of my surroundings.  If the weather is cooperative this Saturday, I hope to be driving  someplace lonely and quiet.