In What's New

My dears:

I am being totally remiss in my commitment to post on here once a day, but it is not for lack of desire, I promise!  Being 53 days away from publication of Secret Side means I am doing a lot.  It’s all wonderful, of course, hosting giveaways and writing posts for blogs that will promote the book’s release, contacting schools to set up readings, recording video for a book trailer we’re working on… it’s all good.  Just really time-consuming.  It’s not even so much that I don’t have the time to write but that I don’t have the creative juice to come up with ideas.

So… somewhere in my “I am Wonder Woman” brain I thought now would be a good time to sign up for a writing workshop (duh), which I started on Tuesday.  I am looking to tackle t.v. writing.  I had a really wonderful experience on my way home from the class.

As mentioned above, I am tired and overwhelmed.  I went to the class right after work and didn’t have a chance to have dinner until 9:30 p.m., after the class, after leaving home at 7:30 a.m.   As I left the pizzeria and headed down the subway stairs, I had a feeling I’ve had before:  “This t.v. writing world is totally different.  There is so much I don’t know.  How will I ever catch up?  I’m too old/lack connections/lack creativity/who do I think I am?”

I was deep in this hunger and exhaustion-fueled negative self-talk when a little upstart of a thought piped up.  “Remember when you felt that way about writing a novel?”  And I remembered many other dark, drizzly late evenings in Manhattan, leaving this “How To Get an Agent” class or that writing conference, overwhelmed by how much younger and “in the know” everyone else looked, depressed about the latest rejection email from an agent, sure I’d never make the cut.  And, yet, here I am, on the cusp of publishing my book, with scores of wonderful little victories behind me.  The first time I got a phone call from an editor who wanted my book.  (I “love love love” it, she said).  The first time my agent took me out for my birthday.  The first time I held a copy of my book with my name on the cover.  It seemed so improbable, and yet here it is.  So why shouldn’t I be able to pull off other victories too?

So I’m still here.  And I’m still writing.  Maybe not always here, but always in my heart,


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