A Year of Living Wordlessly

Twelve months with no writing makes one week weak.

I know a lot of people who’ve told me they’re writing a book. Time will tell if they finish their book and/or get published—not that being published is the end all or be all. Writing is (or rather, can be) a healthy hobby in and of itself. If nothing else, it challenges the brain, which has definite, long-term benefits. As long as a person isn’t imitating Hemingway (think smoking and drinking while typing), there are worse ways to spend time.

That being said, it pains me to add my name to the People I Know Who Are Writing a Book list, like I’m just one more person who thinks it’s a fun idea. After ten years of typing, attending writers conferences, reading thousands of pages of How To Write a Novel advice, and shouldering hundreds of rejection notices, I feel I’ve at least achieved Star Status on that list.

I’ve completed four novels and got about knee deep into my fifth novel. Then, in April of 2016, life changed. Things happened. Not ordinary things, big things. It was an Extreme Year. I feel I’m just now coming out of it. [Cue the horns and balloons and confetti.] I ache, positively ache, to get back to writing. And I will, soon. My husband even bought me this shirt:

I wear it proudly.

So, yes, life happens. I’ve dealt with it. Some would say I won! All I know is I am persistent. I will persist. I will not stop. I have a story to tell. Very soon, I will be blogging and tweeting about my word counts for the day again. Big thanks to my friends who have encouraged me over the past year to hold on to my dream—that would be the dream of moving from the list of People Who Are Writing a Book to the People Who Have Sold a Book list. After all, for some of us, publication is important.

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